


Divide and Rule/Heroes of the Revolution AUs & Sequences

by thisbluespirit



Series: Heroes of the Revolution [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: 1920s, 1930s, 1940s, 1950s, 20th Century, 5 Times, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Drabble Sequence, F/F, F/M, Family Saga, Ficlet Sequence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss, Politics, Suicide, Victorian, fragments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 21:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 87,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18039377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisbluespirit/pseuds/thisbluespirit
Summary: A collection of canon divergence AUs, drabble/fic sequences across the timeline & any other fragments that don't fit in the main sequences for either canon.





	1. Friendly Visit (G, 1870: Eleanor Randall Stephenson, Jack Iveson)

**Author's Note:**

> What the summary says. Mostly canon-divergence AUs and pieces which are sequences, drabble chains or x times fic across the timeline, plus a few fragments of backstory involving Edward and Julia's parents and grandparents. (Give me a loose original canon, and it turns out I spend most of my time writing backwards instead of forwards.) 
> 
> Some longer, more standalone Edward/Julia Other Setting AUs are not included, but they can be found by clicking on their character tags (if I've posted them on AO3) if anyone is curious.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor has an unexpected visitor with a confusing offer to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1870; Eleanor Randall Stephenson, Jack Iveson. (Edward’s paternal grandparents’ first meeting
> 
> Prompts: Rocky Road #1 (big city), Prune #15 (that’s what they all say), Cookies & Cream #21 (offer).

“Miss Stephenson?” said the unfamiliar man at the door. There was no lack of respect in his tone, but at the same moment he didn’t pause for an invitation before lowering his head and entering the house, casting a searching glance around it as he did so. 

Eleanor merely waited for him to state his business, knowing there was nothing out of place for her to worry over. She raised her chin, her hands clenched against her green skirt.

He turned to face her again, holding out his hand, which she ignored. “I’m Jack Iveson. It seemed to me our correspondence wasn’t getting either of us very far, so here I am in the hope that a bit of real conversation will sort matters out.”

Eleanor had known his reason for calling must be something along the lines, but still she felt anger build up within her, her body tensing. “Sir, your coming here can make no difference. I have informed you repeatedly that I have no intention to sell the house and if you mean to bully me into changing my mind, I shall send for a constable to make you leave!”

“Ah,” said Mr Iveson, first lifting a hand as if to ward off her tirade, and then crossing over to the small table to lay down some documents along with his hat. “Hear me out first, Miss Stephenson, before you throw accusations at me. Not very polite to a guest, is it? A cup of tea would be more friendly, but I suppose that’s too much to hope for.”

Eleanor contained her growing temper, maintaining a calm façade as best as she could. “If you must, then, say your piece – and in the meantime I can certainly provide you with a cup of tea.” She crossed to the door and called out for Susan, who came reluctantly, not best pleased by a summons when she was in the middle of preparing the dinner, but who went off to prepare a pot of tea. Eleanor felt rather guilty over demanding it of her, since she was fairly sure Mr Iveson wouldn’t even want the tea.

However, Mr Iveson was not paying any attention to her maid or the prospect of a hot beverage; he was already engaged in spreading out a map across her table, weighting it down at one end with a book. “Now, see where you are here – the trouble is that it’s an ideal position, and the only obstacle left is this little row of houses. The other three owners are happy to sell, so that just leaves you, Miss Stephenson. One very awkward obstacle on your own.”

“That is hardly my fault.”

He nodded abstractedly, still bending over the map. “Yes, yes, and that is your choice, too, but you don’t seem to understand what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“That I shouldn’t stand in the way of progress and your profit? Or do you mean to colour it as philanthropy, Mr Iveson, providing housing for the masses?”

Mr Iveson lifted his head and looked at her. “It doesn’t matter what I call it. Come over here, and look at what I’m trying to tell you. Now,” he said, when she reluctantly stepped nearer, “see there, that’s the line of the railway. Houses will follow, all round here, regardless of what you do, and that’s what I’ve been saying. I asked a few questions about you after I got all your letters, and being swallowed up by the city won’t do you any good even if you keep this place, will it? At least, not your brother anyhow. So, this is my suggestion: I’ll pay you above my original offer for the place and have one of my agents help you find a place in the country – the West Country, isn’t it, you’re from?”

It was an unexpected and unfair offer; too much for her to accept, especially from someone like him. Eleanor hardly knew what to say. She wished it was possible to slap him. “Is that bribery or a threat? I’m afraid I’m at a loss to know _why_ you would take so much trouble! Surely there cannot be treasure under my house?”

“Miss Stephenson,” he said. “It’s a good proposal and I hope you’ll take it. I know some of my competitors are interested and there’s at least one of them wouldn’t play half so fair. If you sit here in the way of us all, one of them is bound to try something more unkind.”

“Oh, so it is a threat! I see. Your competitors, who are of course so very much more uncivilised than you, will drive us out of home or simply build London up around us, so I had better sell to you because at least you’re a decent fellow. Or have I misunderstood you?”

Mr Iveson straightened up. “I think you have. Miss Stephenson, from my point of view, you’re a nuisance, but no more. Perhaps your neighbours will think you worse than that, but it matters very little to me from a business angle. It’s all very simple: I liked the tone of your letters and I’ve come to make you the best offer in my power to give. You’ve a week to consider it, and after that I’ll have to turn my eye to a different location if this one isn’t going to be possible. That is all there is to it.”

“I asked for no pity, no charity –”

“No, certainly not,” he said, rolling up the map again and reaching for his hat. “I don’t waste my time calling on people who write me letters soliciting money. I merely thought we could come to an agreement and solve all our problems between us. Perhaps that was optimistic of me.” He headed for the door, but turned back to hand her his card. “Think about it at least – and if you do get trouble from anyone else, send me word.”

Eleanor took the card, feeling suddenly much more uncertain about where she stood or what to make of him. She was tempted to believe him, which was an odd feeling – someone she had assumed to be an implacable enemy turning to be a friend – or masquerading as one. His suggestion was one that would relieve her of a good amount of her current worries and that was hardly something she could ignore, not with her brother’s health as it was, if nothing else. 

She watched Mr Iveson walk out of the door, his tall, black-clad figure disappearing down the path, even as Susan arrived with the pot of tea and an exclamation of annoyance at having had her time wasted.

“I am sorry,” said Eleanor, “but I think I need it at least. I suddenly have a great deal to think about.”

Susan put down the tray on the table. “You’re never going to give in now, are you, miss?”

Eleanor laughed. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should consult the tea leaves when I’ve finished this. It might be the only way to decide, after all.”


	2. Out in the Open (PG, 1871: Eleanor Randall Stephenson, Jack Iveson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor loses herself in nature.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 1871; Eleanor Randall Stephenson, Jack Iveson. (These are Edward’s paternal grandparents. In one fic, Edward says that his grandmother wrote books on nature while his grandfather was (disappointingly) not an actual pirate, and this is them.)
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day 12/07/16 ( _campestral_ ), Rocky Road #2 (countryside). Flash fic.
> 
> Notes/Warning: Mentions of character death.

Eleanor sat down on a blanket at the edge of the field, putting her pencil in her mouth as she balanced her notebook on her knees. Once in position, she straightened her sun hat and retrieved the pencil, and waited and watched.

She cast a fleeting glance out over the field, apparently empty of anything but grass and wild flowers and weeds, before giving her attention to the immediate details of her surroundings – details that instantly betrayed a far more active and inhabited world than the wider view would allow. She pushed all other thoughts aside and began to scribble down notes, and to draw; one incongruous, small figure in black in the midst of greens and golds and browns with a paper and pencil in hand. She drew a painted lady, landing lightly on a wildflower in front of her. She had no colour pencils or paints, so she shaded in the bright orange and yellows and brown with notes on their hues beside them. She drew an unremarkable stalk among the long grass, broken and bent at the top thanks to some careless passer-by, whether human or other, sketching in the grain-like green head and wispy strands. She hastened to catch the likeness of the odd insect she didn’t recognise as it crawled over the leaf of a nearby nettle, and she made sure to note the time, the date, the location and the weather for future reference. (Sunny, but not especially hot, she jotted down.) 

She was one insignificant, quiet observer in a world humming with endless activity, and paying no heed to her or the rest of humankind until forced to by obstruction or active interference or cruelty. She smiled to herself at how the typical city-dweller might well label it merely pretty, green, or restful – or worse, merely dull. How little they saw.

“Miss Stephenson.”

It was almost as if she’d somehow summoned him up with her thoughts of the city. Mr Iveson, more than anybody else, represented to Eleanor town and business, and indeed, busyness. And yet, she thought, giving him a smile, and finding it a not unwelcome if new revelation, she would not have wished for anyone else to interrupt her escape in the fields today.

“No, no, don’t get up,” Mr Iveson said, putting out a hand as if to prevent her as she hastily gathered up pencil and notebook and straightened her hat again.

She ignored him and rose anyway. It was about time she did so, and in any case, she didn’t want to get a crick in her neck from looking up at him as they tried to conduct a conversation. “How unexpected to find you out here,” she said. “Surely you cannot be surveying this place for development?”

“My dear girl,” he said, ignoring her jibe. “I heard the news. Of course I came.”


	3. Passing Thoughts (T, 1893: Julia Ann Portland, Harold Graves, Christopher Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts that come and go, like summer clouds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> June 1893; Harold Graves, Ann Graves, Julia Ann Graves, Christopher Graves. (Julia Graves's paternal grandparents).
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day 7/7/2016 ( _velleity_ ), Rocky Road #18 (a garden). Flash fic.
> 
> Notes: Mentions of illness (TB) and character death.

“There,” said Harold as he passed a blanket over to Ann, who tucked it around Julia’s skirts in case she should feel the least chill out here in the walled, sunny garden of their home. “I said you should feel better outside, Mother.”

Ann, only just twelve as yet, but far too serious, far too much like her aunts already for Julia’s liking, glanced upward at the sky. “Perhaps it isn’t warm enough, after all. Do you think it might rain?”

Harold scowled at her, and Julia hastened to intervene, being in much too great a condition of exhaustion to deal with the inevitable quarrel that would otherwise ensue.

“It’s lovely, darlings,” she said with a smile. “You know how much I wanted to come down and see the roses, so thank you. I shall read my book, while you two run along and play – and if there’s the least likelihood of rain, I know you’ll help me back inside at once.”

They both turned away, and then Harold swung around. “Are you sure you don’t want anything else, Mother? I can ask Polly.”

Polly was their general maid, who would indeed come out and help, Julia knew, and no doubt mutter all the while at the inconvenience. Julia shook her head, and smiled again. She didn’t say the one quite impossible thing that had crossed her mind at his question: she thought suddenly that she would like of all things to see the sea again. She had visited the seaside once, or maybe even twice, as a little girl. She had gone with her grandmother, no doubt to somewhere like Brighton or Worthing, and never since. Even when she was well, Christopher had been difficult to pry away from his business and he had never cared for the untidiness of the countryside, let alone the anarchy that was the sand and waves and third-class day-trippers of the popular English seaside resort. However, she couldn’t say that to Harold. Her eldest son took too much upon himself – he would want to try and arrange it and it would be completely impossible for him. Even if Julia asked Christopher and he agreed, she felt sure it was already too late. Moreover, she shied away from the idea of the journey and the toll riding in a railway carriage would take on her strength. She lowered her book onto her lap and let the idle wish float away, watching instead the wispy white clouds overhead as they sailed across a blue sky.

After a while, a shadow fell over her: not merely physically, but something she could also feel within. It was Christopher, she knew without looking. Christopher, bursting with disapproval he couldn’t even narrow down to one tangible cause – that she had risked leaving the sickroom, that there was some possible impropriety in being out here, and, of course, the whole situation.

Despite everything, even the risk of setting herself off coughing again, she laughed. “Darling,” she said, without even glancing up, “it truly isn’t any use being angry with me for dying, you know. It wasn’t _my_ wish, I promise you.”


	4. Friend in Need (G, 1903: Elizabeth Long, Hanne Beck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elizabeth Long befriends a small exile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1903; Elizabeth Long, Hanne Beck. (Edward's mother meets Julia's mother).
> 
> Prompts: Rocky Road #29 (out in the cold)

Elizabeth Long had gone upstairs to tidy herself after having been out for a walk, and on coming back downstairs, found herself in the middle of a heated scene in the hallway.

“Whatever is it?” she asked, as she reached Millard the butler, who was standing on the doorstep, apparently trying unsuccessfully to force the visitor to leave. Elizabeth was staying with her friend Mary Carlisle and her parents, so it wasn’t her place to interfere, but she could hardly walk past such a to-do as if nothing was amiss. Besides, the strange seemed to be speaking in German, and she knew enough of the language to perhaps be able to help smooth over a misunderstanding.

Millard turned in relief. “Miss Long. I was trying to tell this person that the professor isn’t here any longer, but they won’t listen. Perhaps you can tell her that he’s moved elsewhere?”

“I shall do my best,” said Elizabeth, although her language had largely been learned by rote at school by a severe German mistress who never condescended to mere conversation. She read some of her father’s books in the language, however, and had conversed with Herr Doktor Beck – Millard’s ‘professor’ – when he had been staying with the Carlisles. He had been most kind and helpful and never laughed at her noticeable English accent.

Elizabeth moved further forward, getting her first clear look at the inconvenient visitors. A woman and a young girl were standing in the doorway, well-wrapped up and with a trunk beside them. It was still raining outside and they were both drenched and bedraggled. She heard the woman ask again for Beck, so she stepped forward and gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s not here,” she said – she could certainly manage that. “Come in. I am sure Mr Carlisle will know where to find him.”

That was probably not what Millard had been hoping for, but luckily for Elizabeth, Mr Carlisle arrived in the hallway at that moment.

“Good Lord, what a commotion!” said Mr Carlisle. “Whatever has happened?”

Elizabeth turned in relief and explained, while Millard shut the front door behind what was presumably Frau Beck and her daughter, who were now standing in the hallway, dripping water onto the patterned tiles of the floor. She explained the situation to him.

“Ah,” said Mr Carlisle. “Odd of Beck not to send them word, but I can certainly find the address.”

Elizabeth would have reminded herself yet again that this was not her home and she didn’t run the household, but a glance again at the unfortunate pair beside her made her forget such scruples. She moved forward to halt Mr Carlisle in his progress towards his study. “Mr Carlisle! I wonder – perhaps if that is so, someone should go and find Doktor Beck for them. If there is any chance that something has happened, perhaps –?”

“Yes, yes,” Mr Carlisle said, and patted her hand. “You are quite right, and as thoughtful as ever, Miss Long.”

Elizabeth shook her head, not wanting praise for what was merely common sense and courtesy. “In the meantime,” she said. “I should surely at least take the little girl upstairs – she’s wet through, poor thing. She might catch her death otherwise.”

“Whatever you think best,” he said. “I shall find that address and send someone round. Millard, see about a blanket or a shawl or something of that nature for Frau Beck.”

Elizabeth gave a small smile. “And tea, perhaps?”

“And, tea, whatever they would care to take, yes,” said Mr Carlisle and disappeared in search of the address.

After that, Mary arrived and then Louisa, one of the maids, whom Millard immediately ordered to fetch some dry things for Frau Beck.

Elizabeth tried haltingly to explain the situation to Frau Beck, and once she had, turned back to Mary to ensure that her friend wouldn’t mind her taking the child upstairs. “And tea,” she added at the last, to Frau Beck, “or coffee if you would rather. Mary will understand that much!”

“Thank you,” said Mary. “I’m not an ignoramus. I can manage at least half a dozen words, Elizabeth.”

Frau Beck crouched down to explain to the child, and then, as she stood up, let Millard help her off with her coat. Her skirts were wet, but she was otherwise largely dry underneath. “Go with the lady,” she told her daughter in German. “She will look after you.”

Elizabeth held out her hand to the girl, who took it with surprisingly little fuss, not seemingly bothered by being handed over to a stranger. She smiled up at Elizabeth and by the time they were halfway up the stairs had started confidently chattering to her, although Elizabeth couldn’t follow all of it. She waited for the right moment and then asked her instead what her name was.

“Hanne,” the girl said, and followed Elizabeth into the bedroom. She still didn’t seem very much discomposed and allowed Elizabeth to help pull off her wet outer clothes as if she was quite used to such things. She was, Elizabeth began to realise with some amusement, evidently the petted darling of the family, confidently expecting kind treatment from everyone she met.

Mary poked her head round the door at that point. “Mother’s arrived and taken over with Frau Beck,” she said. “I thought I’d let you know that she asked for someone to send up hot water. Do you need any help?”

“No,” said Elizabeth with a smile. Then she turned to Hanne and told her, as best as she could, that there would be a hot bath for her and also hot milk.

Hanne nodded. “Danke.” She didn’t seem to find anything strange about the situation still and sat down on Elizabeth’s lap quite happily as she waited in her damp petticoat. She was older than Elizabeth had first thought, probably as much as nine or ten. She leant against her and talked again, although this time Elizabeth had a little more leisure to catch some of it: she hadn’t liked the ship or the waiting and walking in the rain, but she said, they must do it, so that they could find Father.

“Do you think something _has_ happened?” Mary asked, and Elizabeth darted a warning look at her, giving a quick shake of her head: _Not in front of the child_.

“I hope not,” she said. It was much more likely that some letter had gone astray, or the timing had been unfortunate, but best to be sure before they stumbled into trouble, tired and wet from their journey, and alone in a foreign country where they couldn’t speak the language. She looked at the girl. “Do you speak any English?” she asked.

Hanne nodded, and responded by cheerfully reciting what English she knew – good morning, good night, dog, cat, apples, boat – stopping suddenly when the maid returned with the hot water for the bath.

 

While Hanne bathed, Elizabeth asked Mary if she would go and see if there had been any news yet. If it was bad, it would be kind to give the child some warning – and allow Frau Beck a little space if needed.

Mary returned while Elizabeth was helping Hanne into some old clothes that had belonged to Cecily, the youngest Carlisle girl.

“Elizabeth,” Mary said. “Father says that – that the doctor has been very ill, but he’s recovering now and back home from the infirmary – and no doubt will be very glad to see his wife and child.”

Elizabeth gave a slight smile in relief, and turned to the girl. “Hanne,” she said, “we know where your father is now, and you and your mother will see him soon.”

Hanne stared at her and asked her to say that again and when Elizabeth obliged, startled them both by bursting into tears. 

“Oh, come,” said Mary, forgetting that she wouldn’t be understood. “There’s no need for tears, not now.”

Elizabeth ignored Mary and passed Hanne a clean handkerchief. “You’ve been missing your father?” she said quietly as she straightened Hanne’s pinafore. And perhaps, she thought, keeping up a brave front for your mother and everyone else. Elizabeth didn’t have the words to translate that properly or how well she could understand it, but she squeezed Hanne’s fingers gently, and said only, “When you’re ready, we’ll take you back down. I’m sure you’ll want to see your father as soon as you can, won’t you?”

Hanne wiped her face and blew her nose and then nodded. “Yes,” she said, in English. “Yes, now, please, miss.”


	5. Fancy Meeting You Here (G, 1912: Hanne Beck, Harold Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hanne Beck wonders what all the fuss is about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912; Hanne Beck, Harold Graves. (Julia's parents meeting).
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day 17/05/16 (panjandrum); Rocky Road #14 (on the road) Flash fic.

“Oh, how disappointing,” Hanne said, turning her head to her neighbour in the crowd, only to find that her friend Alice had been replaced by a dark-haired young man who frowned at her. She hastily made an apology.

The man gave her first a long look and then a smile. “You wanted to see the great man, I suppose.”

“Well, I haven’t yet, so I _did_ ,” said Hanne. “It looks as if their Majesties are still avoiding me, though.”

The man’s smile widened out briefly into a grin. “In that case, you needn’t be disappointed, Miss – Miss –?”

“Beck,” she said, since he seemed respectable, judging by his clothes (solidly well-made), and not particularly alarming yet.

“It’s not the King – only a very rich businessman, here to clinch a deal, and causing a commotion.”

Hanne sighed and felt foolish again. She always made mistakes, even if this time Alice had also assumed the fuss must be over someone extremely important. She looked anywhere but at the man next to her and so at last spotted Alice waving at her from a short distance away, now trying to push her way back over. 

“I’m Harold Graves, by the way,” the man said, managing if not a polite bow then at least a nod and a suggestion of it, despite the crowd. “And it seems as if we both know Miss Tyler, so you need not look so alarmed at being found talking to me.”

Hanne wasn’t aware that she had, only been embarrassed by her error, so she let a smile suffice as an answer.

“Forgive me for saying this,” said Mr Graves, lowering his tone, “but Miss Tyler seems a rather inadequate choice of chaperone. Allow me to escort you home.”

Alice reached them, out of breath, and cutting in before Hanne could reply to Mr Graves’s offer. “I went around the corner to try and get a better look. It’s the not the King, but it was a very grand carriage and I think perhaps – oh, hello, Harold.”

“Miss Tyler,” he said. “As I was telling Miss Beck, all this is merely over a businessman I came here to see. Now that I’ve escaped, I may as well escort you two home.” 

Alice sighed, putting a hand up to her hat to save it as someone else pushed past. “I suppose you may as well. Hanne, have you met Harold Graves before? No? Well, our afternoon fun is now spoiled. If we so much as glance at a flower-seller, he will be sure to scowl at us, just so we won’t dare stop.”

Hanne ignored her friend’s complaints; she knew Alice was most likely teasing Mr Graves. The crowd, however, disappointed in its eagerness for spectacle was beginning to get more boisterous and Hanne was keen to leave, so she took Mr Graves’s proffered arm. “I would like to go – I may already be late, and I wouldn’t want Mother to worry. Thank you, sir.”

Harold nodded and then ushered them both out of the crowd, pausing more than once to tell Alice not to poke her rolled up parasol at anyone else.

 

On the way home, they happened to pass a flower-seller. Mr Graves made a show of stopping to buy a posy, which he pointedly presented to Hanne and not to Alice.


	6. Dance (G, 1912: Hanne Beck/Harold Graves, Lionel Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These things are never simple…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912; Harold Graves/Hanne Beck, Lionel Graves.
> 
> Flavour of the Day 22/05/16 ( _dulcinea_ ); Rocky Road #28 (up in the air); White Chocolate #15 (indifference). Flash fic.

Harold Graves had the next dance with Hanne Beck, and mindful of not missing his allotted turn, glanced over at her. She was busy talking to her friends, with one or two other admirers close by. He gave a slight smile at the sight before turning away again as his younger brother claimed his attention.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” said Lionel, following Harold’s gaze and casting a brief glare in Hanne’s direction. “You’re not serious, are you? You can’t be. She’s much too young, she’s got no fortune, and she’s not even English. The father’s some German or Austrian professor, that’s all.”

Harold stifled impatience. There were, he thought, few things as aggravating as being lectured by Lionel. “That’s my business, not yours.”

“She’s hardly a sound investment,” said Lionel. Then, sounding more like twenty than sixty at last, he added, “It’s humiliating to watch.”

“Then don’t watch,” Harold said. “Scour the room for more likely ladies if you wish – I’m merely going to dance with Miss Beck.”

“People will talk.”

Harold shrugged. “I doubt it. What you mean is that Father will complain, and I think I’m more than old enough to make my own decisions.”

“He’ll cut you out, you know,” said Lionel, sounding even less pompous now, only anxious. “You know he would, and I don’t want that any more than you do.”

Harold patted Lionel’s shoulder. “We’ll worry about that when and if it happens. What I can assure of you is that the world won’t end if I happen to be one of dozen fellows who were fortunate enough to partner Miss Beck this evening.”

He left his brother and crossed the room to reach Hanne, giving a short bow, before holding out his hand to her and causing Roddy Howe and Clive Anstruther to step back. “I believe it’s my dance.”

“Oh,” said Hanne and consulted her dance card, concentration briefly furrowing her brow, before she looked up again with a smile. “So it is, Mr Graves.”

Harold nodded and hid his amusement as she took his hand and he led her out.

“I’m glad you came,” she said, lowering her tone as they took their places on the dance floor. “Some of the others were being terribly silly and it _is_ tiresome.”

“Then I shall try not to be, Miss Beck,” said Harold with solemnity, as the music began. It was a shame, he thought wryly, that his family didn’t understand how little they had to worry when it came to Hanne, but he didn’t feel inclined to enlighten them.


	7. Den of Thieves (G, 1912: Harold Graves/Hanne Beck, Lionel Graves, Rudolf Beck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn’t the sort of place Harold had expected to find Miss Beck…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912; Harold Graves, Hanne Beck, Lionel Graves, Rudolf Beck.
> 
> Prompts: Rocky Road #10 (bar), Cookies & Cream #7 (chase)

“Lionel?” said Harold in mild irritation, turning towards his younger brother who had just tugged at the sleeve of his coat for no good reason that he could see.

Lionel nodded towards a nearby alleyway. “What the devil is Miss Beck doing there?”

Harold instantly followed his gaze and spotted Hanne, walking along with her maid close beside her, heading down a narrow and by no means respectable side street. She shouldn’t even be out at this late hour. Harold ignored Lionel’s protests and hurried after her, catching up with her outside a pub whose battered and faded sign proclaimed it to be the Nag’s Head.

“Miss Beck,” he said, slightly out of breath in his haste. “You shouldn’t be here.”

She looked up, her eyes widening briefly in surprise. “But I brought Lily with me.”

“I hardly think that is sufficient protection,” said Harold, as Lionel joined them with a scowl on his face, his eyebrows drawn into a disapproving line. “What brings you here in any case?”

Hanne gave a slight sigh. “Mr Graves, I know you mean well, but it doesn’t matter what you say – I have to find Father!”

“And you think he is in there?” Harold nodded at the Nag’s Head. It didn’t seem a particularly likely establishment in which to find Professor Beck, but she wouldn’t have come here without reason.

“I’m not sure, but the man in the bookshop told me that he was on his way to meet someone there, so I must at least go in to find out.”

Harold leant forward. “He hasn’t come home? Surely if that’s so, you should inform the police? Or at the least, you should find a friend to help you search. This is no place for you or your maid.”

“I don’t suppose it is,” said Hanne, “but it will all be much simpler if I can find him and bring him home myself. Mother isn’t very well and I don’t want anyone else to make a fuss.”

“Of course you need to find him,” Harold said. “However, since I’m here now, why not let me help? You and your maid – Lily, was it? – may wait out here with Lionel while I go in and see if I can find your father – or, if not, ask the landlord if he has seen anyone answering to his description. Then there should not be any troublesome misunderstandings.”

Hanne closed her eyes momentarily. “Oh, why must people be so silly?”

“A very good question,” Harold said. “It doesn’t alter the fact that they undoubtedly are, however, and I am not willing to abandon you here at the risk of such harm. Now, Lionel, you will keep an eye on Miss Beck, won’t you?”

Lionel was busy stamping about under the lamplight, keeping warm. “Naturally,” he said, but he didn’t look any happier about the situation.

“There,” said Harold to Hanne. “Now, I shall go in and make enquiries – and if I need you to help, I shall come back out and fetch you, I promise. Lionel –”

He glared at him. “I can keep them safe, but we can hardly stand about here in the street!”

“I won’t be very long,” said Harold, mildly, putting a hand to his hat. “And you know where I am if there should be any difficulty. Now, Lionel, stop complaining – and you Miss –?” He hesitated, making the unfinished sentence a question as he crooked an eyebrow at the maid.

“Miss Chapple,” said Lily. She nodded eagerly, and he suspected that she was relieved at his interference, having had no wish to be dragged into disreputable establishments with only Hanne for protection.

Lionel turned. “Well, I hope this shows you exactly what an unsuitable, irresponsible –”

“I think the insults can wait,” said Harold, cutting his brother off as he strode away towards the pub.

 

By the time Harold re-emerged from the public house, he had not yet managed to locate Professor Beck, but after some persistent questioning of various people and the handing over of several shillings, he had at least gathered some information about the professor’s most likely current whereabouts.

On returning to the alley way, he found the little group now some yards away, waiting under a lamp. Hanne and Lionel were studiously ignoring each other.

Harold looked to Hanne first. “Miss Beck,” he said, as he joined them. “I have an address. I suggest you let Lionel and I go and fetch your father for you while you and Miss Chapple find a cab to take you home.”

Hanne shook her head, the ribbons on her hat flapping about. “I won’t go without Father, Mr Graves. _You_ may go home if you wish – I shall take the address.”

“No, no,” said Harold and glanced over at her with a brief smile. “Resign yourself to the fact that just as you are not going home without your father, I could not possibly square it with my conscience to leave you wandering about the city at this hour. Now, it’s not far, so walk with me and explain – what is this about a book?”

Hanne took his arm, working hard to keep up with his leisurely pace. “It’s a rare volume of some kind. Father must have gone to rescue it.”

“Rescue it?”

“Well,” she said, lowering her voice and leaning in nearer to him, “I do not think the man he is buying it from can be entirely honest.”

Harold had rapidly been coming to that conclusion himself. He had hoped she would have a better explanation. Did Professor Beck regularly encourage the theft of antiquarian titles? He decided it was much better not to ask.

 

Harold’s information led them to a small corner shop a couple of streets further along. Judging by what could be seen by gaslight through murky windows, it was full of the sort of bric-a-brac that Harold’s family would never condescend to purchase. They’d never even have anything this tawdry to give away. 

He entered with Hanne close behind him, and called out, since nobody seemed to be in evidence at the cluttered counter. When a scruffy man in his fifties appeared, Harold asked him for Salter, as he’d been instructed. The man hesitated and his gaze slid beyond Harold, even as Hanne made a small, startled sound. Harold hastily side-stepped, receiving a blow across the shoulder from a second man that might otherwise have felled him.

“We just need to see Professor Beck,” he said as he backed away, grabbing at Hanne’s arm. “This is his daughter – she’s worried about him.”

The first, older man paused and the two looked at each other, before he gave a nod. “Then why didn’t you say so?”

 

Professor Beck was sitting in the backroom of the shop, deep in conversation with the questionable bookseller, their heads bent over the book in question. “Fascinating,” he murmured as he carefully turned the pages.

“I knew you’d like it,” the man who must be Salter said. He could have been any age, bundled up in ill-fitting layers, but he looked at least seventy. He coughed. “And, ahh, it looks as if I’ve kept you here too long.”

Professor Beck nodded. “It’s a shame our conversations must be something of a rarity.” He raised his head and finally emerged from the world of the past enough to register Hanne and Harold. “Oh, dear.”

“Much too late for you to be wandering about town at this hour,” said Salter. He coughed again, but gave a bright grin out of place in the gloom of the shop. “Still, this gent looks like he can give you his arm – get you home safe. And who’s the little lady?”

Harold had to bite down an urge to march them all out immediately – and hit someone if he had to – but he managed to remain impassive and civil. “This is Miss Beck. She was concerned about her Father. As you say, you kept him too late.”

“Oh, dear,” said Professor Beck. “It’s all my fault, I fear. I had so many questions – Mr Salter is something of a fascinating resource in himself. Hanne, liebling, I’m sorry to have made you fret, but you should not have come after me. You should know your old father would be fine, eh?”

Hanne glanced up at Harold, who stepped forward. “Sir, I think we should leave. Your daughter needs to go home even if you do not.” And with some relief, he ushered them out of the shop.

 

“Don’t say anything,” Harold said to Lionel as he rejoined his brother and Miss Chapple. “Go and find a cab for Miss Beck, the Professor and Miss Chapple. No,” he added, as Lionel opened his mouth anyway. “Not now, Lionel. Just – go, please.”

Lionel shut his mouth and gave a short nod before hurrying back to the main street, the others following him out more slowly, only to find that he had been lucky. Harold and Lionel saw the Becks and their maid into the hansom cab, and then they finally headed away themselves.

Lionel shot him a look.

“Yes, yes,” said Harold. “Whatever it is, you may say it now.”

“I hardly need to,” Lionel said. “I think my point – the point all of us have been trying to make – has been more than adequately made already. Does Professor Beck habitually consort with criminals?”

Harold was beginning to wonder the same thing, although he reminded himself that, strictly speaking, he had seen no positive evidence of anything actually illegal tonight. However, he felt drawn to the opposite conclusion regarding Hanne. This was no reason to leave her alone; it merely demonstrated that the whole family needed someone to keep an eye on them. Hanne was perfectly well-behaved, but tonight showed once more how inclined she was to overlook convention when it came to someone else in trouble. Her first thought was to help without stopping to consider the cost or at least first what might be the most practical way to help. It was an admirable trait in some ways, but Harold felt cold, wondering what might have befallen her if he and Lionel hadn’t chanced upon her. That, he thought, must not occur again.

 

“I believe I should thank you,” the Professor said in the morning when Harold came to enquire if everyone was well after the night’s alarms. “I should have done so last night, but I was thinking of the books. I was not sure why you were there, but Hanne has enlightened me and, be assured, I am fully sensible of the debt I owe you.”

Harold tried to think how best to frame the question he wanted to ask. “The volume – can you be sure of its provenance?”

“Oh, it is authentic,” he said, his face alight with new interest. “I have no doubt of that. I examined it most carefully before I agreed to make the purchase.”

Harold coughed. “That was not precisely what I meant, sir.”

“Ah,” said the Professor. “You think Mr Salter and his friends could be somewhat dishonest?”

“The thought could not help but occur to me.”

Professor Beck nodded. “I feel that is all the more reason to make the effort to acquire it. Otherwise some collector would do so and it might be forever lost to other scholars. That is a risk not to be countenanced.”

“Perhaps you could instead have notified the police? If it was stolen from somewhere, it should be returned.”

Professor Beck raised his eyebrows. “True, but involving the police would only, I fear, increase the chances of its being lost or destroyed – and I should never be told of any other such articles. I couldn’t possibly take such action on a mere suspicion. This will now be given to the British Museum or another such library that will make good use of it. After all, if it had not been found till now, it may have been lying anywhere – or its previous owner kept it shut away.”

“And thus forfeited his right to it?” said Harold. _Good God_ , he thought in alarm. “Is that for you to decide?”

The Professor held up a hand. “Now, now, I merely purchase such volumes as I come across. And Mr Salter is a very unusual, knowledgeable fellow. There is no saying that he didn’t come buy it perfectly legally, at some auction or sale or other such affair. No doubt he would not have enlightened the seller as to its value, but that, sadly, is business as I’m sure you would tell me, Mr Graves.”

“You don’t think you might be encouraging theft?” Harold would also have liked to add that he never conducted business in such a havey-cavey manner, in any case, but he decided it was politic not to.

The Professor stared back at him. “Goodness, no! What an idea! If I showed no interest, there are plenty of others who would. Removing myself would only leave more such treasures to fall into the hands of the unscrupulous. I at least will make sure the book is sent to a place where it can be cared for, repaired, and studied.”

“Of course,” said Harold, “this is a rare event, I suppose?”

Professor Beck gave a slight smile. “Oh, yes. It happens only once in a while.”

“Sir, while I realise it is not my place to say something, you do understand that if these people are involved in anything criminal, you could also be prosecuted for your part? What would become of your family? And last night – your daughter should not have had cause to wander the streets, searching for you.”

The Professor drew himself up to his full height, which was only somewhere around five feet four inches. “As you say, that is not your business. Besides, it is the prevention of a crime – the mollification of it at the very worst. And you may rest easy that I have told Hanne that she is under no circumstances to come looking for me again.”

“Sir,” said Harold, biting his tongue. There was clearly no point in continuing. The dealer, as the Professor said, might not have been anything like as disreputable as he seemed. There were plenty of eccentrics in any trade, especially when it came to second-hand goods and antiquities. However, while Hanne would no doubt obey her father in most things, she would not heed that rule if he disappeared again, Harold felt sure. If her father vanished, she would try everything she could to find him. Harold liked Professor Beck, but at that moment he could happily have shaken him.

 

He emerged out into the hallway, being led back to the door by the maid, only to find Hanne coming down the stairs.

“Oh, Mr Graves,” she said, hurrying down the last few steps to meet him. “Thank you so much for all your help last night.”

“Miss Beck,” he murmured in greeting. “You should not have been out there. You do understand that?”

She nodded. “Well, of course – and even if I did not, Lily told me several times – she was most grateful to you and your brother. She most especially did not think we should go in the public house. But it was Father and what else could I do? I had to find him.”

“Someone had to,” Harold said, stepping forward and offering her his hand. “Hanne. I hope it doesn’t happen again, but if it does, or anything like it, and you don’t feel able to go to the police, send word to me – at home or at my place of business, or both. You must not make a repeat of last night.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You mean it,” she said.

He nodded, as Lily passed him his hat and coat. “Yes, Miss Beck, I do.”


	8. Morning Headlines (PG, 1912: Harold Graves, Lionel Graves, Christopher Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harold Graves feels his business is his own – his family disagree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912; Harold Graves, Ann Graves, Lionel Graves, Christopher Graves, Isabel Hamley Graves, Laura Graves, Millicent Graves.
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day 15/07/16 ( _animadversion_ ), Rocky Road #19 (the breakfast table). Flash fic.

“There’s no question of a connection there, you know,” his father said, as if giving the last word on the matter while spearing a kipper with his fork. “Nice enough girl in her way, I’m sure, but never mind anything else, the family’s foreign.”

Lionel opened his mouth, presumably to add that after the other night he didn’t think ‘nice’ was the word, but Harold shot a glare at him in time to silence him.

“Hmm,” said his stepmother. “I’m not so sure that they _are_ respectable, regardless of nationality. I’ve heard rumours.” She took a delicate bite of her buttered roll and gave a slight, dismissive shrug.

Harold tried to ignore them as he usually would, but he felt it was a bit much at the breakfast table. For once, they were all there – not only Father, his stepmother, Lionel and Ann, but the two aunts as well. It felt like being attacked in force and before they had even served coffee. He doubted anyone could have borne it with equanimity.

“That is beside the point,” he said, unconsciously mimicking Father in his tones of finality. “It’s nobody else’s business whom I see or don’t see. I’ve been of age for over ten years.”

Inevitably, that did not end the conversation. Father drew his gaze up from his kipper again, and gave a snort. “Perhaps not, but let me tell you, Harold, you pursue a relationship with that girl and I can still cut you out of my will.”

“I merely went to enquire – oh, what is the use?” he said, and pushed his plate away, the rest of the kipper no longer appetising in the face of their criticism. It was all ridiculous: whatever Hanne thought about him, she certainly didn’t see him as a potential lover. He ought to be amused, he supposed, but he had no patience with it any more, and certainly not at breakfast.

“She’s much too friendly with several young gentlemen,” Ann added. She wrinkled her nose. “Even Roddy Howe, Harold! And you know what he is.”

Lionel refused to be silenced any longer, and swallowed his mouthful, eager to join in. “That’s what I keep trying to say. And, honestly, Harold, the other night – any sensible person would have gone to the police if they were worried, not started traipsing about the back streets. As for her father, he may be an academic, but his morals are shockingly lax.”

“Good G – grief,” said Harold, and stood, excusing himself curtly. Didn’t they have anything better to talk about? He had no idea yet precisely what he felt for Miss Beck, but that was beside the point. What the other night had proved was that she was sorely in need of a friend. If his family stopped disapproving for more than a few minutes at a time, he could have asked Ann or one of the aunts to step in and keep an eye on her, but they were clearly uninterested in helping her rather than tearing her character to shreds along with the marmalade. If only Mother had lived, he thought, although wearily. It was a pointless wish, if at least one thing he, Lionel, Ann, and Father could have agreed on. But Mother would have understood, he knew; Mother would have tried to help Hanne. Why could none of the others even consider it?

“And have you seen Mrs Beck?” Aunt Laura said, as Harold reached the door. “Such very odd clothes! The last time I saw her she was wearing _such_ a hat, I had no idea where to look.”

Harold slammed the door behind him. He could have sworn that, as he walked away, he heard Aunt Millicent say: “Well, he always _was_ contrary, even as a boy. Let him have his little sulk, Christopher.”

He had to pause in the hallway and remind himself that one could not punch an aunt, no matter the provocation.


	9. Moment in Blue and Gold (G, 1912: Hanne Beck, John Iveson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It isn’t a night for fairy tales, it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1912; Hanne Beck, John Iveson. (Julia's mother and Edward's father.)
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day (29/11/15) – nocturne. ( _1\. Music. a piece appropriate to the night or evening. 2. Music. an instrumental composition of a dreamy or pensive character._ ) + Butterscotch + Rainbow Sprinkles + Malt – Birthday prompt ( _How quickly the glamour fades_ from likelolwhat). Flash fic.
> 
> Notes: even more of a fragment than most of these. (I'm also not quite sure if the date of this (or the previous few) is quite correct.)

She was standing just outside the door; the light from the crowded ballroom spilling out behind her, emphasising the gold of her hair and the glinting lights in her dress against the darkness of the night. The dress itself was also dark, navy blue; not a colour that suited her, John Iveson thought as he emerged from the room within to join her. She didn’t notice him, as she leant on the stone balustrade, looking out into the night, unseeing.

“Miss Beck,” he said as gently as he could, but she still started violently at the interruption to her reverie, and swung around in alarm. She looked like nothing more than a guilty child, the elegance of her gown only serving to emphasise her youth, not disguise it, like a child dressed up in her mother’s clothes. As he’d suspected, she’d been crying, her face visibly tearstained.

“I’m sorry,” he continued. “I didn’t mean to give you a fright. You do remember me, don’t you? We met the other day – I’m John Iveson, Elizabeth’s husband.”

She nodded, trying belatedly to hide her face, looking down and away from him.

John gave her an encouraging smile and passed her the handkerchief from his top pocket. “Now, do you want to stay – or would you rather I found a cab to take you home? I can escort you, if you’d like. I don’t mind.”

“Thank you,” she said, seemingly still too embarrassed to meet his gaze as she took the handkerchief. “It’s not – you see, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

He shook his head. “Don’t worry. It’s none of my business, is it? Dry your eyes, put on a show for the room and let’s get you home again, shall we? Elizabeth will be sorry to have missed you but she was needed at home. I, unfortunately, couldn’t get out of this particular engagement, but here’s a chance to be useful after all, it seems. Are you ready?” Even if he had met her other than the once at dinner last week, he wouldn’t have asked any more: where Harold Graves was tonight, for instance, or if the engagement was broken already. Best not to know, he thought, although he doubted much had happened: she was still such a child, or she seemed so to him. 

Hanne Beck nodded, straightening herself again, looking a little less absurdly youthful. “Please, don’t tell Elizabeth,” she said. “If she asked me what it was all about – it’s so silly. She’d tell me I was making up fairy tales in my head and believing in them again.”

“Well, that’s not such a terrible crime,” said John, and crooked his elbow for her to take. “Come along, then. As you say, there’s certainly nothing magical about this affair – I think it’s about time we took our leave of it.”


	10. Familiarity (PG, 1920: John Iveson, Elizabeth Long, Jack Iveson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s time to stop avoiding the subject…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c.1920; John Iveson, Elizabeth Long, Jack Iveson, Edward Iveson.
> 
> Prompts: Prune #21 (the wisest mind has something yet to learn); Cookies & Cream #4 (smile).
> 
> Notes/warnings: family divisions.

“You had better fetch Edward this time,” Elizabeth had said, and although John had protested, she had been adamant. “I can’t,” she had added reasonably. “After all, you should see your father before you leave. He isn’t getting any younger.”

“He’ll still outlast us all.”

Elizabeth had given him the look that answer had deserved. “It isn’t necessarily a _safe_ trip, John. You don’t have to say anything or enact the return of the Prodigal Son, but if you can at least go there and talk to him civilly, it’ll be the better for the both of you, and you know it.”

Elizabeth was right, of course. Infuriating of her, John thought with wry amusement and, since he had agreed, he kept his focus on seeing his son again, rather than his father. He had objected on the first occasion to Edward staying with his grandfather, but Elizabeth had demanded to know if he was serious; if he was really going to deprive his father of his grandson, and his son his grandfather. And since young Ned seemed to think his grandfather was practically a figure out of a story, John had to admit defeat. He remembered something of that feeling himself and with it came an unwanted acknowledgement that he was perhaps unfair in some of his anger towards his father.

When John had been thirteen, his mother had died in a railway accident, and four years later, his older sister had died of TB. In both cases, his father’s only means of responding had been to clear the house of their things and refuse to talk of them while he threw himself into his business. He hadn’t shut his son out, but John hadn’t been able to accept that wall of silence and, of course, he had been away at school most of the time by that point. He could understand his father’s reaction now, but when he’d been younger, he’d simply decided that his father didn’t truly care for any of them – he was a wicked tyrant, a ruthless businessman – and it was a long time since he’d spent much more than an unwilling half an hour in his company.

“John,” said his father, greeting him in surprise in the hallway, even as Phipps, the maid, took John’s hat and coat. “You’ve come for Ned, I take it?”

John nodded. “Where is he?”

“Father,” said a voice and John turned to see Edward standing halfway down the stairs, before the boy leapt down the last few steps to reach him. John grinned back at him and put a hand to his shoulder first, then moving it to ruffle his hair, causing Edward to protest and laugh.

“Been behaving yourself, have you?”

Edward nodded. “Oh, yes. And we went to the zoo – and on a ship! A real one, with sails.”

It was absolutely typical of his father to know how to arrange trips to please Edward. John could remember a time when he had imagined his father could do anything or fix anything, if you could only persuade him. And so Mother’s death had been a double blow, for not only had she gone, but so had the Father who could solve any problem. He’d been revealed as being as fallible as the rest of the human race and John had never forgiven him for it.

“He’s still all in one piece,” said Father, a little defensively.

John turned his head, managing a brief smile. “Oh, yes, I can see that. Listen – I’m going away soon. Did Elizabeth tell you?”

“Yes, yes. You’ll take care out there?”

John didn’t try to avoid his father’s gaze for once. “I’ll write,” he said. “I know you’ll want to hear how things go – how things are out in East Africa, I mean.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said his father, and gave a sudden smile, shaking John’s hand in obvious pleasure. John returned the gesture. There was plenty of time to work out the rest; he had an ocean voyage and a good few months away to think all he wanted.

“Of course, you know I have a friend who –”

“I’ve made my own arrangements,” John said hastily. “But thank you.” He had spent so much of his life in trying not to be his father, to do business in a way that he thought would annoy the old man. It had never worked, he had come to realise. Father had only been pleased at his successes, and critical of his failures in the same practical way he would have been if John had followed him letter for letter. In fact, he probably wouldn’t have cared for that anyway.

John glanced down, distracted by a slight noise, as Edward was shifting about from foot to foot, impatient to be gone, not interested in adults talking about dull things. “Come on, then,” he said to Edward. “We’ve got a train to catch.” He turned towards the door but looked round again, to his father. “I hope Ned didn’t plague you too much.”

His father shook his head. “Of course not. Pleasure to have him – and, in any case, Phipps took care of any inconvenient details, so it’s hardly any trouble to me, is it? Besides,” he added, and then hesitated, his breath a little short. It was suddenly easy enough to see that he was old, heading towards ninety now – his hand trembling on his stick. He gave a small shrug. “I like to have him. And, you know, he is very like Elizabeth, of course –”

“Yes,” John agreed with a grin. “And her father, so the rest of them say. He’s been well dissected in all aspects, as you can imagine.”

His father frowned. “Yes, well. Yes, I’m sure. But sometimes – it’s the smile, perhaps –”

John knew exactly what his father meant. “Oh, yes,” he said. “Sometimes he’s uncannily like Nell.”

“Yes,” said his father, breathing out in relief at having it said. “Glad it’s not just me. Thought perhaps I was growing maudlin in my old age.”

John gave an unwilling smile at the thought. “Unlikely, I’d have said. Impossible, even.”

“I don’t know,” said his father with unexpected gravity. “I really don’t know these days.”


	11. Interludes (T, 1960/1961/1969/1970s: Liz Cardew, Julia Iveson, Edward Iveson, Charles Terrell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems nobody will ever give Liz the answers she’s looking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few pieces are all sequences focusing on a theme or character across several periods of time.
> 
> 1960, 1961, 1969, 1970s, Emily Iveson | Liz Cardew, Julia Iveson, Edward Iveson, Charles Terrell. 
> 
> Prompts: Coffee #20 (flute), Chocolate #28 (longing) + Malt – Prompt from the Hat (Emily: there’s no one you can remember being good for you)
> 
> Notes/warnings: references to all parts of Emily/Liz's story - abandonment, death/suicide.

_I. Mrs Cardew_

“Play it for me, then,” said Mrs Cardew. She’d been looking at Elizabeth’s flute, and now she handed the instrument back with a smile. “Go on, dear.”

Elizabeth hugged it against herself and shook her head. She was trying hard, she really was, but some things were too much to ask.

“You’ve kept it all this time,” said her foster mother. “Why, if you’re not going to use it? I don’t mind letting you have the lessons, you know.”

Elizabeth only shook her head again.

“Oh, I see,” Mrs Cardew said. “You’re going to sulk. Very well.”

Elizabeth took a deep breath and tried once again. “If I played it,” she said, “it’d probably be awful. I haven’t practised in ages.”

“Try, dear.”

Elizabeth looked down at the instrument, out of its case properly for the first time in a year. She opened it up before; she’d thought about playing it. She’d wanted to, but she hadn’t even been able to get this far before; she’d stopped at fitting the sections together. She could play it, she told herself fiercely. She’d played it hundreds and hundreds of times before. She put her lips to the mouthpiece and produced one thin, shrill noise that made Mrs Cardew wince. Then Elizabeth dropped it onto the bed as if it had been a snake. _Emily_ played the flute. Elizabeth didn’t; she just didn’t.

“Oh, Lizzie,” said Mrs Cardew, and hugged her. “I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t realise.”

Elizabeth swallowed her tears valiantly, and lifted her head. “Could I learn the piano instead?”

 

*

 

_II. Mother_

 

“You just want to get rid of me,” Emily said, tugging out of her mother’s hold. She was tearful and angry and didn’t know how much she meant, but she was prepared to fight all she could against being left behind with strangers. “I know you do! Now, and before. You wanted to put me on the boat to Aunty Amy. I heard you.”

Mother drew in her breath, and then knelt down in front of Emily. “Darling, that isn’t true. I have to go, and I can’t take you with me.”

“I shall hate you if you do!”

Mother caught hold of her hand. “Then you shall just have to – until I come back and explain.” Then she looked up. “Darling, I didn’t put you on the boat, did I? It might have been better, but I couldn’t. Now we’ve got no choice.”

“I hate you!” Emily turned away, burying her head in the eiderdown. As she lay there, she heard Mother stand and walk away, and she choked back both anger and tears, and sat up sharply, then half threw herself off the bed and after Mother, flinging her arms around her. “I don’t mean it – don’t go, don’t go – I don’t know anyone –”

Mother hugged her in return. “I know, darling,” she said. “Trust me. I’ll come back the first moment I can, I promise.”

Emily waited for as long as she could, but no matter how hard she hoped or wished or prayed, Mother never kept that promise.

 

*

 

_III. Charles Terrell_

Liz liked to think she would have wound up helping the Resistance anyway, but she might not if it hadn’t been for her determination to find out what had happened to her parents. All that she knew was that they had respectively died and disappeared during the time of Hallam’s rise to power, so she’d wondered if they’d been connected to the early Resistance.

She got involved even before she qualified, as a medical student, and asked around. She was careful, out of long habit, even though questions about the Ivesons were probably no longer likely to alarm anyone. She never got much of a response, although somebody once had said they thought her mother might have been in the Resistance, back in the beginning. The only other thing she ever got out of anyone was a suggestion that she should talk to Charles Terrell. 

It had taken Liz a while to have an excuse to approach Charles, but she volunteered as a doctor to help pass on information and assist Resistance members with medical aid by the simple method of becoming their GP. When she’d first seen Charles and given him a check up, she’d asked questions about his involvement in her father’s death, making excuses about strain and psychological effects, all that sort of thing. “What happened? Why did they arrest you over it?”

“I don’t know,” said Charles. “I wish I did. I can only suppose they thought he’d told me something, but he didn’t. I’d never met him before, and it was Whittaker he wanted to see. I mean, I was nobody then, and he was the Foreign Secretary.” He shrugged, oblivious to her disappointment. “Whittaker didn’t know, either. He didn’t even like him, you see. That was why he sent me.”

Liz gave a slight professional nod, and pretended that Charles hadn’t just shattered the last hope she had of understanding what had happened. She was good at that by now.

“Whittaker seemed to think he was up to something underhanded,” said Charles, distracted by his remembrances into more casual conversation. “Mr Iveson, that is. I don’t know, though. I don’t know what was going on, and of course that was hardly the best time to meet him –” He stopped, failing to finish his sentence, and a shadow of distress crossed his face at the memory. “I wish I’d known. Maybe I could have done something, but of course, I didn’t have a clue, did I?”

“No,” said Liz, carefully keeping her voice even and her hands steady. “Of course you didn’t.”

 

*

_IV. Father_

When she had asked to learn the flute, it was Father who backed her up in it. She should learn an instrument, he said.

“Well, yes,” said Mother, “but why not the piano? We’ve got that old thing in the backroom already.”

Father had only smiled and said, “If it’s her choice, she’s more likely to go on with it.”

“Yes,” said Mother, “and you will no doubt not be around as much when she’s practising, and I know which I think sounds less painful!”

But Mother had smiled when she’d said it, and Emily knew that she would be getting a flute.

 

Mother was right of course about being around more often to hear her practising, but that didn’t mean Father wasn’t sometimes. When she thought she’d got her latest piece right, she went to play it to him, and he never said that he minded. Sometimes he played along with her on the piano. He wasn’t very good, he said, and as she got better, he made more mistakes, mostly to make her laugh. It was an odd little ritual they had, mostly if Mother was out, or well out of the way. When she was there, she’d just shake her head at them both, but she laughed at them anyway.

 

When Father died, it was Mother who came for her and told her. Emily wouldn’t have believed it, except that the truth of it had been in Mother’s face in a way that she couldn’t explain, but even at nine, nearly ten, she couldn’t argue with it. It was years, though, before anyone told her how it had happened. Mother had gone away, and Emily had become Elizabeth Cardew and had learned never to speak about Mother or Father to anyone, especially not anyone she didn’t know.

When she got older, though, preparing to go to medical school, she’d asked Mrs Cardew about it, and she’d told her – afraid, she’d said, that Liz would find it in a newspaper, and she didn’t like to think of that.

That was when she learned the truth; that it wasn’t only Mother who had left her, it was Father, too. And when she’d gone through all her old things while packing, she’d found the flute again. She looked at it, a long-neglected relict of another life, and then she decided it was silly to keep something like that in the back of the wardrobe, and she sold it and used the money to buy textbooks. 

She’d meant it then as an act of rebellion, but it occurred to her later that it was only swapping that earlier interest for another, and it was Father again who let her do that. There was other money, too, for her upkeep and education, and Mrs Cardew couldn’t tell her anything about where that came from, but that must have been Father too. It was a twin pain and comfort, but why, she thought, _why_ couldn’t one of them have stayed?


	12. These Foolish Things (T, 1924-1960: Edward Iveson, Elizabeth Long, Caroline Sheldon, Daisy Long, Marie Werner, Peggy Venn, Julia Graves, Emily Iveson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Iveson and the women in his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1924-1960; Edward Iveson, Elizabeth Iveson, Caroline Sheldon, Daisy Long, Marie Werner, Peggy Venn, Julia Graves, Emily Iveson. Drabble (pocky) chain. (The first drabble was included in the Divide & Rule collection, but the rest wasn't.)
> 
> Prompts: Passionfruit #24 (I am part of all that I have met), Prune #7 (somebody stop me)
> 
> Notes/warnings: abandonment, divorce, infidelity, death, implied suicide.

_1924: Mother_

“You’re sending me away,” he said, finally breaking his sullen silence on the station platform.

“I’m sending you to _school_ ,” said Mother, tugging his jacket straight in lieu of a kiss goodbye. “There. And in summer you’ll stay with your cousins – you’ll enjoy that.”

“He made you.”

Mother sighed, lifting her head to watch as the train came in. “Ned, darling, it’s more complicated than that.”

 

One couldn’t cry on a train too full of other boys, so he stared out of the window hard. It didn’t matter what she said; she’d sent him away and didn’t want him back.

 

*

_1935: Caroline_

“I’m sure it was just down here,” said Caroline, leading him by the hand as they walked through the copse. They reached a clearing awash with bluebells, nearly over now and faded almost to lavender, but there were still vivid blue patches

Edward smiled, but turned to her in concern. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “Last time you seemed –”

Caroline shook her head and caught hold of his hand again. “No, no. I was being silly that day. I promise.”

“In that case,” said Edward, “I’d better say what I was going to then: will you marry me?”

 

*

_1936: Aunt Daisy_

“The truth is,” his aunt said, “people do the most foolish things, and not only for love. Trust me, there’s nothing so feather-headed or stupid that someone somewhere hasn’t attempted or believed in. Fiction’s very misleading, you know – everyone always has reasons in stories. In life, even the most sensible person will have a fit of folly at least once every ten years.”

“Even you?”

She smiled. “Oh, even me. Though rather less than most, I’d like to think. So, Ned, next time –”

He shook his head; it was much too soon.

“Next time, choose your wife more carefully.”

 

*

_1938: Marie_

Edward was at the theatre, as instructed by Marie’s message, and not paying much attention to the play. This was all wrong, he thought. When he saw her, he’d tell her so; he’d end it.

She met him in the interval, wearing a smile and a long silver dress. He knew then he wouldn’t say anything, and when she leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, her nearness was almost painful.

“Edward, honey,” she said, amused; catching his expression. “You don’t have to, you know. It’s your choice.”

She was right, but it just didn’t feel true any more. 

 

*

 

_1940/1943: Peggy_

“Tea, sir?” she said, putting a cup down on his desk, and smiled as he glanced up to thank her. Then she leant forward; conspiratorial. “Only for heaven’s sake, don’t tell the others. I want to finish some of that filing.”

He laughed. “It’s our little secret.”

 

One of the other secretaries told him, in the end. “Did you hear, sir? Peggy’s dead. Awful, isn’t it?” At his silence, she added, “You know – Peggy Venn. Don’t you remember her?”

“No, no,” said Edward, recalling the work days she’d brightened, and also two strange, secret nights, “I remember.” 

He wouldn’t forget.

 

*

_1950: Julia_

Edward returned from three days away in Scotland at a tedious conference, arriving back in time to make it worth going to Diana’s party, ostensibly to speak to Mr Morley, but truthfully to escort Julia home.

“How was everything?” he asked, ushering her in through the door.

She put her arms around him in the hallway. “Oh, dreadful. Each day was an age and I don’t know how I lived through it. Why did you go away again?”

“Julia!”

“Oh,” she said, glancing upwards from under her lashes; a gleam of amusement stealing through, “you think I’m not being serious.”

 

*

_1960: Emily_

It was all very well to decide in the abstract that removing oneself was the best solution to the current difficulty (and now they’d gone this far, it was, he knew) but harder to hold true to that when faced with the reality of leaving Emily as well as Julia.

He’d never known why his mother had sent him away; he didn’t want to cause Emily to have to ask similar questions all her life. Julia would understand enough; he hoped she would be able to explain.

But he knew he should have been able to find some other way.


	13. Veils (PG,  1937/1940/1949: Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When everything changes, it’s so hard to see the way ahead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1937, 1940, 1949; Julia Graves.
> 
> Prompts: Flavor of the Day 15/11/15 - _diaphanous_ ((1) very sheer and light; almost completely transparent or translucent. (2) delicately hazy) + Malt – Ghosts of the Past (1. A child's view of mother/father). Flash fic.
> 
> Notes/warnings: loss/abandonment.

_1937_

It was too early to be up, but Julia wrapped her dressing gown about her and climbed into the dormitory’s window seat, looking out across the low hills as a West Country morning mist clung to the land, obscuring the view. She reached into her pocket first for the blue chiffon scarf that Mother had left behind, and then for the letter from Mother, telling her that they had arrived safely in Berlin and wishing Julia a good half term. It wouldn’t be too long before they saw her again. She didn’t mention anything about war, but at school they did. Everybody said it was coming and Julia, wrapping and unwrapping the scarf around her hand, found suddenly at fifteen how supremely unknowable the future was. She couldn’t see anything any more.

 

_1940_

She shouldn’t have come, Julia knew, as she stopped at the gate. She had no call to be here, and it wasn’t even as if it had been a pleasant walk. It was a windy day, a further gust threatening her hat and blowing the drizzle into her face, half blinding her. 

Still there it was: home. She closed her eyes against the sight, filling it in her mind with the people who were missing: Father, Mother, Christy, Rudy, Mr Keynes the gardener, and various maids and governesses in turn. It didn’t really work; she opened her eyes again and wondered who its new occupants were. There was no sign of them, either. 

The war was real now and it had changed everything. It was as if, not only had Mother left, but as soon as she had, the world had turned around and renounced all the frivolous things she’d loved so well. Everything these days was about mending what you had, making do, being practical. And Mother – Julia hung her head, not wanting to cry. It had been stupid to come here; to indulge in self-pity, instead of getting on with things. She put her hands up to her scarf to straighten it; what had once been Mother’s blue chiffon scarf and now was hers. She’d just have to accept that she had no way to reach them. Like everyone else, she’d have to do her best and hope the war wouldn’t last very long.

 

_1949_

Dresses, fine fabrics, invariably reminded Julia of Mother. She couldn’t help laughing to herself as she worked on altering the dress she’d managed to find for herself. Whatever would Mother say? She’d be delighted at the idea of a wedding of course, if shocked at the concept of mending and making do being applied to the dress for such a day. Julia leant her head back against the sofa, relaxing her hold on the silk and the lace. She wasn’t sure, these days, how much she’d ever known her mother. She was a glamorous, much loved figure in flyaway material; in trim, impeccable daywear, and evening frocks of all shades of the rainbow in silks and satins, chiffon and lace, sequins and rhinestones. What would she say if she knew her daughter was going to marry a man who was almost a complete stranger?

It would be different for Mother, of course: she’d known Edward’s family. She’d probably think it like something out of a novel, or see it as a far more practical solution than trying to work in some low-paid job. Julia, though, couldn’t tell. She couldn’t see her Mother any more, she couldn’t see Edward yet. She had the ring on her finger and this dress on her lap and that was all.

 

And when she stood on the deck of the ferry, in sea mist and more fine drizzle, the dress packed away in her case somewhere on board and Edward beside her, she thought, with another veil of rain over her face, that she still couldn’t see a thing.


	14. Right From Wrong (PG, 1935/1949: Edward Iveson, Caroline Sheldon, Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When it comes to marriage, as far as Edward can see, everything only works when he goes the wrong way about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1935/1949; Edward Iveson, Julia Graves, Caroline Sheldon.
> 
> Prompts: Flavour of the Day 23/07/16 ( _connubial_ ); Sangria #5(The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice). Flash fic.
> 
> Notes/warnings: marital breakdown.

_August 1935_

Edward leant against the door to the best guest bedroom. “Caroline,” he said without much hope, “for heaven’s sake, at least tell me what the problem is.”

He’d tried everything he could think of since the day he’d come home to find Caroline locked in the bedroom, crying inconsolably. She had insisted, in response to his alarmed queries, that she was all right, but she’d said nothing more and wouldn’t come out nor let him in. In the morning, she’d reappeared, tear-stained but only shaking her head when he asked again what was wrong. She had, that day, and for the rest of the week, dutifully made his breakfast and dinner and avoided him as far as she could, hiding in the kitchen or the spare room and at night, he still heard her crying. He’d panicked and called the doctor, but the doctor, after a long consultation alone with Caroline, had only told him that nothing was physically wrong and Edward should merely give his wife some time and space to deal with the problem. He’d made Edward feel that he was being unreasonable and impatient. And maybe he was, he thought, but how could he know until he knew what was distressing Caroline so much it was driving them apart?

So, Edward had tried to be patient and give her time, but he hated the strained conversations, the muffled sobbing at night, the worry that he had somehow done something to cause this, that the doctor was wrong or colluding with her and she was badly ill, and he’d lasted nearly two more weeks before he’d finally lost his temper and yelled at her, demanding an explanation. Caroline had taken his rage with his head slightly bowed and only apologised again, as she had before, and said that she knew she was being unfair, but she couldn’t explain until she’d come to a decision about something.

After that, they’d spent the next couple of weeks being terribly civil and pretending nothing was wrong, and coming home now, Edward wasn’t sure he could manage that any longer. The strain of the lie, the way that he couldn’t confide in anyone else, because to do that would be to admit that his wife had turned against him after less than three months and shied away from his touch with revulsion. She probably didn’t want to face up to it either, and it wasn’t helping.

He realised then that there was an unusual silence from the other side, and after calling her name again, he pushed the door open and found the room empty with only a note left on the bedcovers. He picked it up without reading it and sat down heavily on the bed. She had gone.

His first emotion was relief, to his shame. He’d been walking on egg shells around the house these last few weeks. Then came shame and guilt, because how could he have gone from wanting to spend the rest of his life with her to being glad she was gone in such a short time? And, he knew, there could be no hiding what had happened from the world now, or from his family. The sense of shame bit deeper. Somehow, while courting Caroline in the most unexceptionable fashion imaginable, he’d managed to do everything wrong and their marriage was already over.

 

_December 1949_

Edward peered through the doorway of what had been the box room until Julia had declared that they must restore it to its proper use as another guest room. There was space enough up in the attic rooms for odds and ends that had been left in there. “Good God, Julia, what happened?”

“Oh, no!” she said, turning and coming close to falling off the stepladder, before she climbed down. “It can’t possibly be that late! And as to the rest –” She eyed the half-painted room and the ruined carpet ruefully. “Well, it was all quite simple. I’d decided on primrose – if you would agree – and then I found the perfect colour at the shop, and when I came back, I had to test it – and it seemed silly to stop when I was getting along so well. But I did mean to show you first – and obviously I didn’t mean to paint the carpet.” She screwed up her face. “Sorry, darling.”

He grinned. “So, the carpet is definitely going to need replacing, then. If you disliked it that much, Julia, you could have said.” He watched her as she put down the brush, and attempted to wipe paint from her face without much success. “You probably should at least try not to paint yourself while you’re at it.”

“That isn’t the worst,” she confessed as she reached him. “I had no idea it was so late and I haven’t even thought about dinner. I really am the most dreadful wife, I’m sorry.”

Edward leant against the door post and tried not to let his amusement show too clearly. “Yes, shocking,” he agreed. “Do you think you can get yourself cleaned up in time for me to take you out?”

“I don’t think I deserve a reward for bad behaviour,” she told him. 

“Well, I’d quite like dinner too,” he pointed out, although he thought privately that if anyone had been rewarded for bad behaviour here, it was him.

Julia laughed and leant over to kiss him, before drawing back immediately in further apology. “Oh! Oh, Edward, sorry, I wasn’t thinking –” She bit her lip, and then couldn’t master her amusement, leaning against the wall giving up even stifling her giggles. “N-no, really, I didn’t mean to –”

He stepped forward, catching hold of her, since it could hardly make matters much worse. “Come on,” he said, removing her now chiefly yellow overall and hanging it over the steps, before taking her hand and pulling her out of the room. “Time to get cleaned up!”

“You must admit, though,” said Julia, letting him lead her across the landing to the bathroom, “it _is_ better than that vile green wallpaper, and once it’s done, that can be the main spare room, which really it ought to be, you know –”

Edward turned and put a hand to her face, kissing her again. “Yes, I know,” he said. It had been once before, and it _had_ been a vile green. No wonder Caroline had cried so much. And, he thought with sudden reckless selfishness, thank God she _had_ – thank God she had gone!


	15. The Letter (T, 1991/1960: Liz Cardew, Charles Terrell, Edward Iveson)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liz gets an unexpected and maybe unwanted answer to some of her questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1991/1961; Liz Cardew, Charles Terrell, Edward Iveson.
> 
> Prompts: Prune #30 (if it’s the last thing I do) + Cherry, Malt – Truth or Dare ( _Emily/Liz reads the files on her parents_ , from roisin_farrell).
> 
> Notes/warnings: death, suicide, grief.

Liz Cardew closed the card folder on her desk and put the top back on the fountain pen she’d been using, when the door opened. “Ah, Anil,” she said without glancing up. “About time. I was on the point of leaving.”

“Not Dr Basu,” said a less familiar voice and Liz looked up, startled, to see Jamie Bradley, private secretary to Charles Terrell, standing in front of her. He passed over a note. “The PM would like to see you, and the lines seem to be down again, so I thought I’d catch you on my way out. He says it’s personal, not government business.”

The note gave Liz even less information than Jamie had just imparted. “Personal?”

“That’s what he said,” Jamie replied with a shrug, not very apologetic for his lack of knowledge on the subject. “Seemed to think it was something important – but personal, not public.”

 

Liz made her way over to the Prime Minister’s office and, after she’d been shown in, waited for Charles to stop writing and notice her. When he didn’t, she eventually ventured to say, “Charles?”

He stopped, and immediately got to his feet. “Liz. Good! I thought you might have left and now is a much better time than the morning. Look, I have something to show you, but it might not be that easy for you. Bit of a shock, perhaps.”

Liz raised her eyebrows, as she took the seat opposite him. “For heavens’ sake, Charles, what is it? If you’ve got any more dead bodies lying about, I’m fairly sure they frown on that sort of thing in the PM. Or at least, so I assume. Dr Basu would probably think it only typical of a rebel leader.”

“You know that isn’t funny,” said Charles. “Also not the thing to raise in the PM’s office, thank you.”

Liz pushed back a little against her seat. “No, I know. Sorry. But will you just get on and spit it out? I know you’re a politician, but if someone’s slashed all our funding or whatever it is, I can take it.”

“It’s not that. I’ve got some papers here, and while they’re technically government property at the moment, I think you have a right to see them.”

The realisation hit her, finally. Liz swallowed, feeling her mouth dry. “My parents,” she said. “You’ve found something else.” And then despite his obvious concern, she leapt to a brief moment of improbable hope. “Oh, God – my mother -?”

He shook his head. “No, not your mother. After our previous conversation, I asked Sally to let me know if anything cropped up on the subject. There have been a lot of files to sort through – Hallam kept whole stacks in his private archive and nobody left alive and at liberty seems to have a good idea what was in them, and there are more from various departments that weren’t exactly officially filing duplicates.”

“But these papers, whatever they are?”

“At some point around 1970, it seems Farrell & Hopgood solicitors were suspected of resistance activity, although under highly dubious evidence by the sounds of it. All their files were seized and most of them left unsorted in a warehouse in north London that has a whole lot of similar files. There’s a team going through them – it’s hoped they might shed some light on the fates of some individuals who disappeared during Hallam’s time in office, among other things. And when they got to these boxes, this turned up.”

Charles slid a document across the desk to her, his gaze fixed anxiously on her face. Liz looked down at it and, after that build up, felt foremost a leaden sense of disappointment, even as it was preceded by a small chill as she recognised what she had. “My father’s will? That’s all?” Then she bit her lip. “I’m sorry – I should thank you. I am grateful, of course. It may help. I just thought you had something more – I don’t know what.”

“If you read it,” said Charles, “you’ll understand why.”

Liz frowned, scanning over it. She’d wanted to know exactly what had become of her parents for years, but it was always an uncomfortable thing to encounter something of theirs. There was such a gap between that lost, enchanted part of her childhood, and everything that had come after. And she knew about her father, what he had done, how he had died, even if she didn’t really know why. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know more, now that she came to it.

“Here,” said Charles, pointing. “This section.”

Liz focused on the paragraph he’d indicated, gradually beginning to actually take in the words as she read. She paused at the end, feeling cold, and read it again to be sure of what she’d seen.

“A letter?” she said. She raised her gaze to meet Charles’s. “There was a letter. Has it survived?”

Charles nodded. “It was with the will.”

“Oh, God,” said Liz.

Charles passed her an envelope and Liz moved back as if it was a snake, giving into an instinctive panic.

“I don’t want it,” she said, and shoved it back towards him. “Just – put it away – burn it! I don’t want it.” Her hand was shaking, she noticed, although she wasn’t sure what her reaction was as yet, but anger was beginning to claw its way uppermost. How dared her father do what he did and then write her a letter to explain it away?

Charles gave an awkward cough. “Well, technically it’s still government property at the moment, so I can’t burn it. You don’t have to read it if you don’t want to, but I have to warn you that someone will.”

“What?” said Liz. “It’s my letter!”

“It’s in the government archives and it concerns the previous Foreign Secretary. It’s an important historical document that might shed light on the last years of the National Government, something which Hallam has largely obscured. And it’s not as if anyone else knows that you’re the person it’s addressed to.”

Liz hesitated, keeping one hand on the envelope. “Do you think this was what got the practice raided? And its partners arrested, no doubt.”

“I doubt it,” said Charles. “Wouldn’t have been still here, buried under all the rest otherwise. Just a coincidence – or they pulled out anything relating to clients who had their names on the questionable list, but never got round to going through it all. Enough people suffered from Hallam’s paranoia. You should see that warehouse. It’s going to take years before it’s sorted through. The Colonel suggested a bonfire, but we thought there’d been enough of that kind of approach lately.”

Liz nodded. “All right, I take your point. I shall look at it. Just give me a moment.”

“I can keep it here for you for a while,” he said. “It can wait if you need some time.”

Liz had made up her mind to it now, and she shook her head. “No. I’ll never sleep tonight if I don’t.” Although, she thought, still angry, she didn’t see what Father could have to say to her, not about this. She didn’t want a letter from him – he should have stayed alive and told her whatever he needed to himself. And then, her medical training raised its head, and she wondered, even more uneasily, what sort of state of mind he might have been in, and whether it would be something she could bear to look at.

“I’ll be elsewhere,” said Charles. “I’ll find someone to make you some tea. Might even make it myself at a push, and the Prime Minister doesn’t make tea for everyone.”

“Ha,” she said, but she wasn’t really listening, opening up the thirty year old envelope cautiously. There was some water damage on one side, and she had a sudden, contrary fear, that in fact there would be nothing left _to_ read. Whenever she came close to her parents, that was always the way it was: there was so little remaining, never enough to hold.

 

***

_1960_

Edward Iveson stared down at the blank sheet of paper on his desk and wondered yet again how to start. Perhaps it was better not to try. What could he say? But he thought again of growing up, never knowing why his mother had left him with his aunt. He would rather choose another path entirely for Emily, but since it must be this one, he could at least make every effort to explain. Given the circumstances, he couldn’t even rely on Julia doing so, and in any case, she always blamed herself, and he knew that wasn’t true.

He decided that the only way to do it was simply to get on and write, to pretend it was any other necessary document he had to draft. He picked up his pen again, and began:

 _Dear Emily_ ,

_This is without doubt the most difficult letter I have ever written, and one for which I hope there will be little need, but matters are growing dangerous and I cannot make that assumption. It is also difficult because, even here, even in a letter that should be kept secure and private, there is a great deal that cannot be said, but I will do my best._

_First, to reassure you that I have made every provision for you. This letter will reach you either on the date your mother decides is most appropriate, or on your twenty-first birthday, when you will come into full control of the account I have set up in your new name. Everything has been closely checked and provided enough of our society remains intact, you will be cared for and kept safe._

_The truth lies in actions your mother and I took a long time ago, although the fault lies chiefly with me. One of these actions in particular would have the most serious consequences if uncovered and it has been, by an associate of Mr Hallam’s, who has been blackmailing me. I could not allow that to continue any longer, especially since I have come to regard Hallam as the most serious current threat to our country. The only way to bring the situation to a close without also sacrificing your mother, is the one that I have chosen. It is, you must understand, also just in its own way. As I said, a great deal of this is entirely my own fault._

_I cannot imagine that will be much comfort, but it is the truth. The last thing either of us ever wanted was to abandon you; I hope again that your mother will be there to tell you that._

_I also hope –_

 

“Sir,” said one of the endless secretaries, knocking on the door and poking his head round. “It’s nearly seven now – the German ambassador is on the line, and you did arrange to speak to him –”

Edward glanced at the clock in surprise, and cursed its treachery; it had taken more time than he had thought to get this far. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Put him through immediately.”

 

***

 

I feel nothing, thought Liz. Here I am, reading all this, and I feel nothing. The medical part of her mind reminded herself that that was how shock worked, and this _was_ a shock, even if a minor one. The words would sink in eventually, and then the reaction would come.

She picked the paper up and read on, finishing the last paragraph:-

 

_– I also hope that Hallam will be long forgotten by the time you read this, but whatever the situation, I wish you a good life. You must go on with it, no matter what happens, and not be ruled by our mistakes. I feel confident that you will._

_All that remains is to say that you have all my love, and always will, no matter what may divide us. Bless you,_

_Father._

 

“I’m not sure if I hate you more, or him,” said Liz, when Charles returned with a cup of tea.

Charles raised his eyebrows and paused on the point of taking a sip from his own cup. “Well, that’s the last time I make you a hot drink.”

“I don’t mean it,” said Liz. “I don’t know how I feel – and I still don’t know about my mother. I don’t suppose there’s anything about _that_ in this warehouse of yours?”

He shrugged. “Who knows?” he murmured. “Although don’t you think that little discovery is enough of a miracle for one person to expect?”

Liz thought about it. The words of the letter circled around in her head, only gradually beginning to settle and harden into their meaning and her first reaction was a strange sort of comfort. She knew better, but she’d thought – one always _did_ think – that her parents couldn’t really have cared, not enough, not to leave like that. There was always still a part of her that was the angry and abandoned nine year old, even if she had grown up in every other way a long time ago. She felt a sort of resentment at both Charles and her father, for giving her the letter, and for writing it – for forcing her to engage with any of that – but it did feel better to have that letter, telling her that that was not so; that she had not imagined the first part of her childhood, or that she had been loved, whatever had come after.

“I need to take it home, Charles,” she said. “Please.” She blinked back tears she hadn’t realised were beginning to form. “It’s my letter. I don’t think he ever meant for anyone else to see it, except perhaps Mother.”

Charles held out his hand for it. “I can’t steal documents,” he said gently. “I should think most likely they will let you have it in the end, but it’ll have to be dealt with along with the rest. But I can let you have a copy, if you’ll wait.”

She nodded, and then gave a rueful laugh. “I said I didn’t want to read it – and I’m not entirely sure I won’t wish I hadn’t in a little while. But I think I’d wait here all night rather than go home without it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Charles and gave her shoulder a momentary squeeze. “I’ll see to it for you.”

Liz laughed again, then, more fully. “What did I do to deserve the PM waiting on me like this?”

“It’s confidential material,” said Charles. “And anyway, there was that time we’re not talking of in here that you helped me dispose of a body. Maybe we can finally call it even.”

Liz paused, as if to consider that, and then shook her head. “No chance. You’ll go to your grave before you’ve managed to repay me for _that_ favour. Or at least, so I fervently hope.”

He grinned. “I’ll get you that copy. Won’t be long.”

“Charles,” she said, as he was halfway through the door. “I suppose I should say thank you.”


	16. Little By Little (PG, 1908-1992: pretty much everyone)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tea and conversation, and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1908, 1923, 1937, 1947, 1952, 1957, 1963, 1972, 1980, 1986, 1991, 1992; John Iveson/Elizabeth Long, Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Hanne Graves, Christy Graves, Ron Whittaker, Charles Terrell/Marian Dalton, Anna Miller/Louise Murray, Elizabeth Miller, Michael Seaton, Liz Cardew. Drabble (pocky) chain.
> 
> Prompts: Sea Salt #9 (steam), Sangria #2 (2. Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul), Prune #16 (every little bit helps) + Pocky Chain + Malt - My Treat (A series of conversations that take place over tea)
> 
> Covers the whole canon in brief.

_1\. 1908_

“Tea?” said Elizabeth, her hand ready on the pot. “Mr Iveson?”

Her father’s guest moved across with a smile. “If you’d be so good.”

“You seem a little distracted,” she said. Mr Iveson, unlike many of Father’s visitors, wasn’t averse to conversing with her as if she was a rational being. Today, not so.

He took the tea, stirring it; watching her. “Well, I’ve been deliberating over a question, Miss Long – is it too soon to say? Or more of a risk if I don’t?”

“Oh?”

“That we might suit,” he said. “I believe we might. What do you think?” 

 

_2\. 1923_

Edward found it hard to breathe, the room too full of dark-clothed adults, mostly drinking tea: _careful, that’s hot – mind the china_. Wearing an unaccustomed black suit himself, he curled up in the window seat. He could leave, Mother had said, but he felt he ought to stay while she did.

A lady sat beside him, cup in hand. He glanced up to see Mrs Graves, Mother’s friend.

“Let’s go outside,” she said, smiling. “It’s so stuffy in here, and I’d love to see the garden again.” She caught his look at Mother, adding, “Don’t worry – no one will mind.”

 

_3\. 1937_

Hanne carried her tea into Harold’s study, sitting down at the desk.

“Everyone will say I’m stupid,” she told the empty chair, “but the papers always exaggerate – maybe things aren’t so bad. Besides, it doesn’t matter if I’m wrong as usual – I’ll face anything as long as it’s not your family being unkind again. Especially the aunts – pair of old vultures, saying I’m not fit to look after anyone! So, I _am_ going, whatever happens.” She paused. “Not Julia, though. I know you wouldn’t have her leave school now. She’ll stay, I promise.”

But it would, she thought, hurt terribly.

 

_4\. 1947_

Edward returned to his desk to find the file (the fatal file) still open next to a cold cup of tea. They were more than names to him, save Rudy: he remembered Hanne’s kindness whenever they’d met, and he’d run into Christy sometimes, to their mutual annoyance:

_“You can be such a bloody prig,” Christy’d say, and when Edward protested: “You are, you know.” He’d grin. “But a nice one, I’ll grant you.”_

Edward closed the file, not truly concerned with the past, wondering only what _Julia_ Graves thought of him now – or if she’d ever think of him again.

 

_5\. 1952_

Exhaustion seemed to take everything she had: when Edward got up to leave, abandoning her along with the undrunk hospital tea, Julia let slip a whimper of protest.

“I have to,” he said, leaning over to kiss her forehead. “Visiting time’s over, I’m afraid. You’ll be home soon, though – they keep telling me so.”

It was silly to cry after he left, but home wasn’t only Chalcot Crescent, despite its reassuring Georgian solidity – her place of safety was Edward and had been ever since they’d met.

She closed her eyes, reminding herself he was right: she _would_ be home soon.

 

_6\. 1957_

Julia Iveson passed Ron Whittaker his tea. “Milk, no sugar. I remember – though it’s been ages since we’ve seen you! Have you been busy?”

“Very,” said Whittaker, apparently intent on stirring his tea, despite its lack of sugar. “Sorry about that.”

“Ned won’t be long – at least, so he said.” She laughed, pulling a face.

Whittaker nodded, looking up again as she left. There were several reasons he’d not been round lately, but one of them was self-preservation. No sense in banging your head against a brick wall, metaphorical or literal. But still, he wished she’d stayed a little longer.

 

_7\. 1963_

“I’m going to take up bank robbery,” said Charles, sprawled on Whittaker’s sofa. “All this time I spend in prison these days – might as well get something to show for it.”

Whittaker hung onto his tea cup as if it was the last bastion of civilisation. Perhaps it was. For however much longer they’d still have tea. “If you’re going to live outside the law, then do something more constructive.”

“Oh?” said Charles. “And is rebellion constructive or destructive? You tell me.”

“God only knows,” Whittaker said soberly, and put down his cup. “But we might need to find out.” 

 

_8\. 1972_

Catherine unfolded out her paper chain people: six in a row. Mum, Dad, Philip, David, Catherine and, now, on the end, her other father. He was as faceless as any paper person to her, and neither tea nor Mum’s words had helped. Maybe he’d run off and left Mum; maybe he’d had no choice; maybe he was in with Hallam, working in the government, or maybe he was secretly working against them. 

When you looked at it like that, Catherine thought, she might as well make him anything she wanted him to be; it would be every bit as true.

 

_9\. 1980_

“What happened to the others?” Liesa asked, close to Anna on the battered sofa; there wasn’t much else available in the safe house.

Anna shook her head, unscrewing the flask of acorn tea. “They went the other way. It’ll take a while for them to get back.”

“Just us, then,” said Liesa, taking the tea; leaning against Anna and taking what warmth she could from both. Tea finished, she turned her head, kissing Anna, who closed her eyes, remaining for a moment before she stood – work still to be done, she said. With Anna, Liesa knew, there always would be.

 

_10\. 1986_

“Damn!” said Arran, spilling his blackberry tea across the floor.

Anna shook her head. “You don’t need to watch your language on my account.”

“Who says I was?” He looked around unsuccessfully for a means to clear it up, as Anna continued frowning over her plans of action. “Oh, what’s the bloody point?”

“The tea, or everything?”

“Only the tea – for now. Don’t worry. I know – loss of morale wouldn’t be leader-like.”

Anna gave a brief, private, sideways smile and, without looking up, said, “Use the tea cloth – over there. And you can have my tea; I don’t want it.”

 

_11\. 1991 (1)_

“I know what you’re thinking,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair, an amused light in his eyes.

“Psychic, are we?”

“You’re thinking: why the hell has Anna put _him_ up for PM? Well, unless she’s told you more than she’s told me.”

Arran wore a grudging smile. “She’s given me reasons – but, no, not an explanation.”

“Well, that’s something we’ve got in common, Colonel,” said Charles and raised his tea in salute.

Arran laughed, putting his cup down. “Fair enough. Just one thing, Terrell – this is Parliament House. Surely you’ve got something stronger in the bloody place than tea?”

 

_12\. 1991 (2)_

“But why didn’t you just ask me?” said Charles over a cup of tea and the files spread out on the desk between them.

Liz shrugged. “Too many years keeping quiet about my past – my parents. Secrecy’s a hard habit to break. But I _did_ ask, you know. In a roundabout way, but you told me you didn’t know anything.”

“No,” Charles said, his face furrowing in his frustration. “I don’t. But I bet Whittaker did. If I’d known, I’d have put you onto him.”

Liz tapped her cup with her fingertips, her smile wry. “Too late, then – as usual.”

 

_13\. 1991 (3)_

Charles passed Anna a cup of tea. “Here. Drink that, and tell me what’s wrong – if you can.”

Anna leaned her head on her hand. “Thanks. And I can’t.”

“Something happened,” said Charles. “At Salisbury, yes? And you’re worried this man knows something? Want me to sound him out for you? I’m sure you’re wrong.”

Anna smiled wearily, but she slid her hands around the mug and breathed in, taking strength from it. “That’s not it.” She raised her chin. “Doesn’t matter, though – I know what to do.”

“All right,” said Charles. “In that case, it’s already sorted, isn’t it?”

 

_14\. 1992_

 

“Tea?” said Marian, with a smile. She had, Charles thought, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

He grinned. “The world ends – but there’s still tea?”

“Don’t be so silly, love. If the world had ended, there’d be no tea and no one left to drink it, either. But while it’s here and we are, why not?”

Charles nodded. You could sit around worrying about everything and everyone who’d been lost, what hadn’t happened, or you could get on with things as they were – and make time for tea with the people who remained.

“Tea,” he said, echoing her. “Why not?”


	17. Settling Accounts (G, Julia Graves, Michael Campbell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia has an encounter with Michael (who never could remember her name).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the remaining pieces from here are AUs of one kind of another, mostly canon-divergence.
> 
> This is probably something Julia would like to have happened, rather than something that did, but who knows? Drabble.
> 
> Prompts: Chocolate #14 (vengeance)

Recognition came at the same moment for both of them, as Julia was settling the account.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said, not allowing him to ignore her. “I thought I knew you from somewhere.”

He passed over the written receipt. “You look well,” he said after an awkward pause.

“Oh, yes,” she said, with her brightest smile. “ _Very_ well. You, too, I trust?” And then, at the last, before moving away from the desk: “Now, do excuse me – oh,” she said, “how embarrassing – it’s been so long, I seem to have forgotten your name. Now, wait – was it Matthew?”

“Michael,” he said.


	18. Midnight Escapade (G, Regency AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Christy Graves, Amyas Harding)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward Iveson only wanted to read his book in bed, but fate seems determined to provide him with an unexpectedly eventful evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1905 Iveson/Julia Graves, Christy Graves, Amyas Harding. (Just a little Regency romance AU for Edward and Julia.) Technically a standalone other setting AU, but too short to be posted separately anywhere.
> 
> Prompts: Lemon-Lime Sorbet #3 (caught in the act) + Chopped Nuts + Gummy Bunnies (also for Trope Bingo square “au: historical”.)

The shadowy figure climbing into Edward Iveson’s room through the window paused on slipping inside, before straightening and raising a pistol in the direction of the bed. Edward, however, was no longer lying on it. He had, on hearing the noise, hastily moved to stand beside the window behind the curtain, and so was safely out of the line of fire. 

He made a grab at the stranger, catching hold of them and managing to pull the firearm away in the brief struggle. However, that accomplished, he rapidly became aware that the intruder he was still hanging on to was not in fact male, but undeniably female. He hastily released her in his shock, and then stared, trying to make out her identity in the dim light, before reaching forwards and removing her hat, so to see her face better. She stepped back in alarm, as her fair hair fell around her shoulders.

“Miss Graves?” he said, still unsure, as the moon passed unhelpfully behind a cloud.

She gave a short gasp and moved towards him, squinting up at him. “Mr Iveson? What are you doing in here?”

“Failing to read my book in peace, it seems,” he said. “Perhaps it was unreasonable of me, but it _is_ my room. Would you care to explain what it is that I’ve done to merit an attempt to murder me?”

Miss Graves only stared again. Edward put her hat down on the nearby chest of drawers and picked up the candle, bending down to light it in the embers of the fire before straightening carefully and placing it between them on the window sill. 

“Well?” he said.

She recovered her voice. “I am so very sorry, but it must have been the wrong window! And I wasn’t trying to kill anyone – how could you think I would? The pistol isn’t even loaded. I wouldn’t take such a risk.”

“Then what were you doing?” Edward asked. He thought, immediately after in some embarrassment that there was a possible explanation of which he would want to know nothing, but then reminded himself that she would surely not need to go to such lengths for an assignation. Creeping about corridors was a good deal less dangerous than climbing up walls.

Miss Graves opened her mouth to respond, but before she could say anything, the door from the hallway opened and Christy Graves burst in. 

“Ned, what are you about in here? Are you well?” he said, before catching sight of Julia, pressing herself against the panelled wall in a futile attempt to hide from him. “Good God! Ned! What the devil are you doing with my sister?”

Edward glared at Christy and leapt forwards to shut the door after him. “You might want to keep your voice down if you don’t want everyone in the house to be asking that.” He looked from Julia to Christy, and one thing at least became clear to him. Christy had been given the room next to him, and it must have been her brother’s room she had meant to enter by such unconventional means. He felt an entirely illogical sense of relief at the realisation.

“Never mind me,” said Christy, unappeased, as he glared at his sister. “You can’t behave like this!”

Edward looked towards Julia again. “Miss Graves climbed in my window and waved a pistol at me – or she meant to. Since, apparently, this isn’t the room she intended to reach, I imagine she was trying to enter your room. Perhaps you will have a better idea of why she should take such measures? Whatever that may be, I suggest you settle matters between you at once – and do try not to frighten any of the other guests out of their wits while you do!”

“Ah,” said Christy, losing much of his anger and giving Julia a sidelong glance. “Honestly, Julia, whatever possessed you?”

“You weren’t frightened,” Julia said, addressing Edward at the same moment, ignoring Christy. “I know that I shouldn’t be here, but whatever were you doing, hiding behind the curtain?”

Edward put a hand to his mouth to try and hide his smile. “You weren’t very stealthy, you know. Now, both of you, what is this?”

“I suppose it’s because of that necklace,” said Christy, “but you know I’d have given it back in the end – there was no need to go stealing my clothes and clambering about someone else’s house in the middle of the night! Iveson will think you quite the abandoned female.” Then he gave her a hurt look. “You were going to threaten me with a pistol? You could have shot me!”

Julia sighed. “No, I couldn’t. It isn’t loaded. You should have returned the necklace when I asked – it isn’t mine, it belongs to my friend Margaret and she needs it back!”

“Christy,” said Edward, intervening and catching hold of his arm. “Go fetch this necklace – and a cloak or some such thing for your sister, to cover her up in case else anyone sees her – and then we can all get back to our beds, hopefully without the other guests being any the wiser.”

Christy nodded and headed for the door, but then turned back, hesitating.

“And yes,” Edward said, “I promise not to harm her in the meantime. The evening has been quite eventful enough, I feel.”

“Besides,” added Julia. “I have a pistol.”

“Unloaded,” Edward reminded her. 

“I could still hit you with it and I daresay you wouldn’t care for that!”

“No, I very much doubt I should,” Edward agreed. “Now, go on, Christy – hurry!”

Christy having disappeared, Edward turned back to Julia.

“I am sorry,” she said. “He was being utterly impossible – and I _had_ to have Margaret’s necklace for tomorrow. I couldn’t have faced her without it. I tried to tell him, but he wouldn’t listen. I swear I don’t make a habit of such behaviour.”

Edward gave a brief grin. “I believe you. I should imagine you would be significantly better at it by now. You might even have taken me unawares.”

“Are you very shocked?” asked Julia, after a long, awkward pause. “You must be. Anyone would be.”

Edward cocked an eyebrow, pretending to consider the question, although, he thought, he wasn’t anything like as shocked as he should be. He was, he found, rather enjoying the evening. “A little, perhaps, but what I am more shocked by is you taking the risk of climbing up here – what if you had fallen, Miss Graves? That would not have been so amusing.”

“There’s a tree,” she said. “Sir Alexander was telling about it only yesterday, and how he used to climb it as a child – and when I looked, I could see how easy it was. There was not much danger.”

“But hardly safe,” said Edward. “Even less so if you cannot be sure which room you might end up in. I hope you don’t try to repeat the exercise.”

Julia looked away, out of the window, as if she was half wishing she could climb back out again. “No. I shan’t ever do such a thing again, I assure you. At least,” she added, turning back to face him, “not without some _very_ pressing reason.”

“Ah, Iveson,” said someone else, pushing the door open. “I thought you might still be awake. I had a further thought about that report and if you could let me have those papers –”

Edward moved in front of Julia instinctively, despite knowing even as he did so that it was ludicrous and unhelpful. Why, he wondered, did nobody knock before they burst into his room, whether by the door or the window? Was he really seen as being so dull that no consideration for his privacy ever crossed anyone else’s mind? 

“Mr Harding,” he said, embarrassed and wondering how he could salvage Julia’s reputation now. “Miss Graves is – well, this is not what it looks like, I assure you!”

“I don’t know what it _does_ look like,” said Harding, giving Julia in her male attire a curious stare. “But that, my dear fellow, is your business. May I have that report?”

Edward reached for Julia’s hand and closed his fingers around hers. “This was not how we wished to announce the news, but Miss Graves and I are engaged to be married.”

“I wished to speak to him in private about a matter concerning the wedding that would not wait,” added Julia. “But I thought it better not to be seen coming into his room at such an hour, so I – borrowed these things from Christy.”

Edward glanced at Harding, fighting to keep his expression entirely solemn, before he turned back to Julia. “Indeed, but as I was only this moment saying, I think it hardly improves matters.” He gave Harding a slight shrug. “Still, Christy has gone to fetch her cloak and take her back to her room. If you would be so good as not to broadcast Miss Graves’s innocent impetuosity to the rest of the household, we would be very grateful.”

“Christy?” said Harding.

Julia nodded. “Naturally. I would hardly come here alone. That would be extremely improper.”

Harding raised both eyebrows. “Unlike dressing yourself in masculine clothes? Well, Iveson, in that case, I congratulate you – and wish you good luck. I fear you may need it. Now, do be a good fellow and fetch me that report. I don’t have the least interest in your love affairs, unless you’re going to be indiscreet enough that I should have to ask you to resign your post.”

“Thank you, sir,” murmured Edward, and hastened over to fetch the parliamentary papers in question from his trunk. “There you are.”

Harding bowed to Julia and then left with the report, nearly colliding with Christy in the doorway.

“Well, there’ll be the devil to pay now, won’t there?” said Christy, pulling a face as he shut the door behind him and passed Julia a cloak. Edward took it from her to put it around her shoulders. “What did you let him in for?”

Edward fastened Julia’s cloak for her, more interested in that than attending to Christy. “I didn’t let him. Like you, he simply walked in without even knocking. I suppose we should have locked the door, but my nights are not usually this eventful.”

“Oh, Mr Iveson,” said Julia, catching at his hand before he could move away, though she was still sounding subdued at the trouble she’d caused. “That was _most_ kind of you, but I couldn’t possibly let you sacrifice yourself that way.”

Christy looked from one to the other. “Eh?”

“While you were gone, we became engaged,” Edward told him. “It seemed the only thing to do after Harding caught us.”

“Oh, I see,” said Christy, as if it was the sort of thing that happened every day. Perhaps, Edward thought, it did in their family if tonight's events were any indication of their usual behaviour. “Well, there’s no need to worry over it, Julia. You’ll merely have to wait until we’ve left here and then jilt him as kindly as you can.”

Edward looked back to Julia again, with a smile, and kept his hold on her hand. “Oh, I suggest you take as long as you like to consider it – after all, perhaps you might find instead that we would suit.”

“I suppose,” said Julia, still looking at him, “that _is_ possible, isn’t it?”


	19. Different Skies (T, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Anne Long, Rudy Graves, Hanne Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Small things change from universe to universe, but they make a big difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Anne Long, Rudy Graves, Hanne Graves. Seven AUs where Edward and Julia fail to get together, and one where they do. 
> 
> Prompts: Peanut Butter Binge + Chopped Nuts + Brownie + Malt – January Games 1 (Part I of winebabe's question: _How drastically would things change if Edward & Julia didn't end up together?_) (binge= writing all the prompts for one flavour in one piece, in sequence.)
> 
> Warnings for War, death, espionage, mentions of suicide, divorce, infidelity.

**1\. Fire (1946)**

Edward Iveson sits beside the fire and watches it burning low, leaning his head back against the chair and letting his book fall from his hand into his lap. He’s sure, after all, that he’s read it before.

He’s here in his house in London alone; his wife stays in Kent. It’s a long-settled arrangement, one he takes for granted these days. It’s been a long while since he even raised the question of changing things. He supposes that perhaps he should, in response, go out and find someone else, but he tried that once and found it far too uncomfortable to repeat. 

The fire’s almost entirely died out now, but he can’t be bothered to move; not for tonight at least.

 

**2\. Water (1947)**

The rain never ends as Julia trudges back and forth from her flat to her unexciting job working for a stationers’. It’s not bad and Mr Kingsley isn’t the worst employer, but she feels trapped here. Pencils and paper simply don’t thrill her.

Once she had wild thoughts of going to Germany to find her family, to be sure the scant news she’d heard was true, but she’d put that idea aside (as any sensible person would) once word had stopped coming from Rudy. She’d only have found confirmation of the awful facts, she knows.

The world froze early in the year and seemed as if it would never thaw again: now she wonders how much water it takes before the whole world drowns in sorrow.

 

**3\. Wind/Air (1949)**

“Not him,” she says, when Simone shows her the photographs of the three prospective targets, pushing the picture of Edward Iveson away from her. “I know him, I think. It had better be one of the others.” She doesn’t care which – what difference does it make?

She manages to escape catering duties and slip into the reception, where she meets a Mr. Lionel Halliwell. To her amusement, she finds he’s only too ready to talk, but Simone and the organisation are sadly out in their estimation of him: he has nothing to say worth hearing.

She keeps an eye out for Mr Iveson – she doubts he’d remember her, but best to take no chances. Even aside from the possibility that he might be able to connect her to the organisation, he brings unwelcome memories with him: hearing the news of her family’s deaths like a blow, and a dreadful, unreal visit to a morgue that she’s pushed firmly out of her mind ever since. The only time he comes near her, she passes on hastily, unseen, like air.

 

She stays in Paris with the organisation. She’d have liked to go back to London, but what does she have there any more? Only elderly relatives she wants to avoid and friends she no longer speaks to. She sits in a café with a book and cigarette and watches the world go past, getting swept away by a never-ending stream of catastrophe: there’s fighting still, bombs set off by other groups, governments falling and nobody’s stopped it yet. It would be cowardly to run away from mainland Europe now.

She contemplates her double life as she drinks her coffee – she’s waiting for Benoit again. Benoit has a position within the government and access to useful information, so Julia’s playing the usual game with him. She wonders how this started – she can dimly remember her outrage the first time she was asked to do this, but now it’s just something she does. She thinks suddenly, with a surprising burst of feeling, that she hates it. She hates the game, hates Benoit, hates the organisation, the world, Paris. She wants the life she once had, but it’s irrevocably gone, blown away with everything else and the person she once was along with it.

She’d like, she thinks idly, pushing her cup away and putting the book down, to be a cloud, floating away anywhere she chooses, not bound to the earth, to any one place or another. Then she leans her head on her hand and pulls a small grimace, because there’s nowhere left she wants to go.

So, she stays. She stays until there’s a revolution; until the bombs fall again, and it’s much, much too late to leave.

 

**4\. Earth (1943)**

He sees her, sitting on the grass next to his cousin Amy, laughing at something, her arms around her knees. Her hair catches the sunlight and gleams golden for an instant before she moves.

She’s perfect, he thinks, in an unguarded moment before he catches himself in such uncharacteristic folly. He looks away again hastily, embarrassed, as if one of them might glance over and read his guilty thoughts. He doesn’t usually pay any more attention than is polite to his aunt’s guests. Now he leans against the doorway and has to look again: it’s not as if he can do anything more. It’s a sudden, sharp reminder of so many things – she’s a symbol of everything he can’t have, and he puts one hand to the wood of the door, painfully aware of his mistakes. 

He moves back indoors, into the shadow of the hallway. He’s still married, he thinks, coming back down to earth in more ways than one. He is still married and that’s his own doing as much as it is Caroline’s. She was the one who was too hung up on moral scruples to consider a divorce, but he’s a coward. He had no one else he wanted to be with, never really has since, and he was glad to avoid the courts and the scandal and a label that would follow him around for the rest of his life. He’d assumed she’d come round in the end. If she wouldn’t leave him for Jack, then what else was she going to do?

As he knows now, there were more answers to that question than one. He’d grown angry, in the end, and fallen into an affair of his own with splendid miss-timing, only shortly before she tried to put things right. That combination had ended as badly as one might expect and they’d let everything fall apart and lie there.

But it’s ludicrous, he thinks, making his way back through the house in search of his Aunt Anne. Never mind his odd, passing fancy for a stranger; he needs to deal with the situation he’s in. Either they need to finally try, or to acknowledge the truth, and go through with a divorce. It’s not as if he can make anything worse at this stage – or at least, he adds with typical caution, not very much so.

“Ned,” says his aunt, emerging out into the hallway ahead of him. “Is something wrong? I thought you were going to join the others in the garden?”

He glances down, trying to hide his amusement, knowing he’s never going to hear the end of this – unreasonably running out on her only a few moments after he’s arrived. “Well, the thing is, Aunt Anne, I’m afraid I’ve remembered something important, and I must go. There’s somewhere else I need to be.”

He’s going to see Caroline.

 

**5\. Wood (1950)**

Julia’s become something of an expert on pencils and paper and all related paraphernalia – envelopes and watermarks, carbon paper, account books, rulers, ink, pens. She likes to be good at what she does, even if it’s only the typing. She’d like, though, not to have to think about any of it again, if she could. And, to her surprise, she gets the chance when she catches the manager’s eye.

She feels like a character in a novel: the secretary who marries the boss while everyone else shakes their head. She’s the gold-digger, and he the foolish older man. She meant to say no; she meant not to sell herself in this way, but she hates the work some days, she hates being short of money, and most of all, she hates the loneliness. It seems, in the end, like a fair bargain. Mr Kingsley – Arnold – is a kind man, one who’s not expecting her to pretend to love him; he’s a realist too. She can do this – she can play hostess, run a house, charm him, earn her keep. 

He asks her about love – if there was anyone, if there is now. He asks her to think carefully before she accepts, because there’s bound to be someone, he says. She shakes her head and laughs, because she doesn’t really believe in love, not like that, not something that could come out of the blue and sweep other considerations aside. She’s suffered an infatuation she once thought was love, but which faded instantly, she’s been flirted with, and flirted back, but never feels the urge to pursue the connection. She simply doesn’t seem to be the sort to fall in love. 

 

She can do this, she finds, and it works; it’s all fine until Arnold starts courting politicians and manages to hook Mr Harding, President of the Board of Trade, who brings with him Mr Iveson, Parliamentary Secretary to the Foreign Secretary. And while Mr Harding talks to her husband, Julia turns to Mr Iveson, trying to apologise without criticising Arnold for expecting someone as exalted as the Foreign Secretary to show an interest in his own small venture into exports.

“No, no,” Mr Iveson says, cutting her off with a smile, saving her from any further entangled sentences. “We’re always keen to promote British trade – especially when it concerns someone who’s considering such a generous donation to the party.”

Julia laughs, which is nothing in itself, but it’s not his only visit to the house, and their paths cross at social events. And whenever she does see Mr Iveson, it’s easy to share that amusement again. A small thing, but somehow not as harmless as it should be.

 

She doesn’t want to be at the party, although she’s perfectly charming to everyone she meets, until she finds Mr Iveson at her elbow, asking if she’s enjoying the evening, and she doesn’t consider giving him a polite lie. “I wish I was,” she says, stealing a ruefully amused glance up at him, “but I thought it was tomorrow night – and I was just on the point of getting to whodunit in my book!”

He raises an eyebrow, and she feels the heat rise in her cheeks. 

“You think I’m stupid now, I suppose,” she says. “Please, be kind and pretend you didn’t hear me.”

“Of course not.” He smiles, in a way that’s becoming familiar: with merely a quirk of the mouth, but his entire face is illuminated somehow, before he’s deceptively serious again. “I’m fully sympathetic to your plight, Mrs Kingsley. It’s happened to me before – although it’s usually the library demanding their book back again.”

It’s about then she starts enjoying the party.

 

Mr Harding arrives with Mr Iveson one evening when Arnold is out and she offers them both a drink while they wait, and when she goes out to the kitchen to fix it, Mr Iveson follows her out. He leans against the door and says, very carefully, that’s he’s afraid he’s had a little too much to drink and begs her for coffee, and they stay out there as she tries to help him sober up.

“I’m not very –” he says, and stops. “I mean, only a little –” He waves a hand.

She shakes her head at him. “Yes, but why, when you knew you had a meeting?”

“Harding,” he says, as if that explains everything, and washes his face at the kitchen sink while she passes him a towel.

“I ought to be shocked and throw you out of the house,” she says. “And what do you mean – Mr Harding? Why would he try to get you drunk?”

Mr Iveson throws the towel back to her and starts work on his coffee. “Ah, well. I think he likes to know the worst of people – wants to know all their secrets. No nasty surprises in the party, something like that. I think. He’s got a funny sense of humour sometimes.” He waves his hand vaguely again and leans against the worktop.

“Then why let him?”

He smiles like a guilty schoolboy. “Well, it _is_ always very _good_ brandy.”

“Come on,” she says, tidying away the towel and putting the teaspoons next to the sink. “We can’t stay out here like this – whatever will Mr Harding think? I don’t know what he’d be telling Arnold!”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He looks away and the smile that he gives her now is forced, only a movement of the mouth – there’s no light in his eyes. He is, as he says, not very drunk, but enough so as not to be able to pass over the awkward moment with ease: his reaction is all too plain. She feels herself colour again and fails to find any words either. She focuses on the coffee pot and swallows back sudden fear.

“We’ll just tell him the truth,” says Mr Iveson, recovering himself, although he must know as well as she does that it’s too late now. They both understand what hasn’t been said. “That you’ve been kind enough to overlook my rudeness this evening, Mrs Kingsley.”

 

Every time they meet again now, the friendly conversation, the shared amusement is only present in fits and starts. Most of the time, they snatch moments alone to have ridiculous, awkward conversations. She talks desperately of the weather, and he recounts something that happened at the party conference – and then the last time, she thinks in something like despair, she talked to him of watermarks for nearly half an hour while he responded by telling her how different government departments used them.

It can’t go on, she decides. If nothing else, they can’t endure any more such conversations. When he next visits, she seizes the chance for a private talk by telling him that he may borrow the novel he’s been after and takes him into the library, where he can see the books. (Books, she reminds herself, that Arnold kindly bought her.)

“Here,” she says, passing him the detective story in question, although he’s distracted by looking around at the library, and starts when she hands it over. She hides a smile, unsurprised. He hasn’t been in here before. 

He takes the book, flicking through its pages without really glancing down; it’s a gesture born of habit. “It’s very kind of you. There’s a long list for it at the lending library.”

“You could buy it,” she says. “Or are you a terrible skinflint, Mr Iveson?”

He shrugs. “I hope not – but I certainly don’t have a place like this to store my books if I let myself get carried away.” He moves nearer to her, but checks himself, as Julia leans back against the bookshelves, looking away. He’s a good deal taller than her, and she’s not used to that. Too tall, she tells herself sternly, remembering her purpose. Like a comical stick person, she adds with more vindictiveness. She doesn’t know why she likes him at all. She doesn’t know why it’s suddenly so difficult to do what she came here to do.

She’s decided: all she has to do is tell him to go, to leave her alone. They’re both sensible people; and it’s obviously the only thing to do, she’ll say. She simply can’t leave Arnold, and there it is. To have an affair instead, she thinks, with an unwelcome moment of clarity, they’d have to be casual and discreet and careful, and she knows she’s not really any of those things, and she’s not sure he is, either. 

She hesitates, wondering what would happen if she kissed him instead; if she moves closer to him, if he’ll kiss her, and what that would be like, and if it would be so dreadful to do that first, before she says what she must and never gets the chance. She closes her eyes, imagining it: she’s leaning against the shelves, books pressing against her, reminders of her debt.

“Was there something else?” Mr Iveson asks, watching her. “Mrs Kingsley?”

Julia glances over at him. “Oh, yes. Yes. I’m sorry.” She doesn’t know what to say after all. The trouble with Mr Iveson is that she doesn’t know what she wants with him. It was simple with Michael, a straight-forward infatuation, only desire and very little else. It’s pretty straight-forward with Arnold, too: she knows what she agreed to, and there’s an undemanding affection between them. With Edward Iveson, she wants – oh, she wants to pull him into a corner and talk about books for hours – she wants him to kiss her so badly she catches her breath at the thought – she wants just to take him home and keep him. She supposes it _might_ be love, but if it is she’s not sure she’s doing it right.

“Well?” he says, still puzzled. “Because I should really go back, don’t you think –?”

Suddenly her planned words don’t seem enough. What if he argues? What if he asks her to leave with him? That shouldn’t make a difference, but she doesn’t trust herself to object. Oh, why, she thinks, did he have to come along? Why does he even like her? Why should anyone like a woman who’s sold herself for such mercenary reasons? She hates him for simply being, for turning up and talking to her, for giving her brief, secret smiles in a crowd –

“Yes,” she says, her head snapping up. “Yes, you should, Mr Iveson. I really hoped I wouldn’t have to say so in so many words, but if I must –” She shrugs. “I don’t know what you think me, but I’m not the kind of woman who would cheat on her husband. And don’t tell me I’m leaping to unwarranted conclusions, because I know I’m not.”

It’s so very satisfying to see him react: his eyes widen slightly in surprised dismay and he shrinks away from her somehow without moving. “That wasn’t – I should say –”

“Oh?” she says. “Then what were you doing? Flirting with me for your own amusement? Perhaps you think I couldn’t be the sort of woman I am and have a heart? Or did you really delude yourself that I would leave Arnold for – for – a _politician_?”

He turns the book over in his hands; she can’t read him at all. “Yes,” he says, so quietly she almost misses it. “Yes, I do see.”

“So, yes,” she says. “I think you should leave, Mr Iveson. You’re embarrassing us both.”

She raises her chin, intending to be dignified, but spoils it by knocking half the books off the nearest shelves with her elbow, and biting back a cry of annoyance. She crouches down to gather them up and when she stands again, he passes her another stray novel.

He says, very politely, very carefully, “I’m sorry to have been such a nuisance. I had – no such intention – and I certainly don’t think ill of you, believe me. Rest assured, I won’t trouble you again.”

She can’t trust herself to do anything more than nod and waits until she hears the door close behind him to put the fallen books down on the table and press her hand to her mouth. It’s done, she tells herself. That’s what matters, and if it’s love that makes her feel so very sick, so unsure suddenly if she can trust herself to stand without support, then she’s glad to have pushed him away, because she simply doesn’t need it.

 

**6\. Metal (1947)**

Edward Iveson kneels on the floor, checking for any sign of a loose board. There’s very little here otherwise: it’s a bare, single rented room – hardly surprising given that its occupant’s original home is now one of the many piles of rubble in Berlin.

“Turn around slowly,” says a voice from behind him, “and tell me what the hell you’re doing! And if you haven’t got a very good reason, then I’ll blow a hole in your brain.”

Edward realises he hasn’t been as stealthy as he should, and obeys the instruction, turning to face the newcomer. He’s a young man, fair-haired and slightly built; the room’s owner for certain – and alone, which is a relief.

“Put the gun down,” says Edward, keeping his voice level. “I’m sorry about this, but I’m not your enemy.”

“My friends don’t break in.”

Edward raises an eyebrow. “I’d imagine some of them might – that’s part of the problem. You’re Rudy Graves, aren’t you? I’m Edward Iveson. We have met before, but you won’t remember – you were too young.”

“Is this a joke?”

Edward holds up his hands with a faint sigh. “No. Will you put that down and let me explain?”

Rudy hesitates, but he lowers the weapon. Edward’s willing to bet he never meant to use it, but it’s still a relief.

“Thank you,” says Edward. “Look, I am sorry about doing things this way, but there were a few things I had to make sure of before I spoke to you. I’m here with the British, and guess what I found going through some of the files?”

“Stop playing games with me.”

Edward leans back against the window ledge, fingers gripping the edge of it. “I’m not. I recognised your name – our families were friends once – and I read what happened to the others – to your Mother and sister, and to Christy –”

“I don’t understand,” Rudy says. “You want something, so spit it out.”

Edward shakes his head. “It’s not that. Bear with me. You see, your name came up because of a roll of film we acquired. If you’re going to plot with subversive organisations, Mr Graves, you should considering _not_ taking photographs along the way.”

“I didn’t,” says Rudy crossly. “Only one or two – for a reason –”

Edward pulls a small bundle of five photographs out of his jacket pocket and holds them out. “These aren’t of any value to us. I’d assume that’s not the case for you. I recognised your Mother immediately – and I _am_ sorry.”

Rudy snatches them back, his face tightening slightly: he might have taken them but he can’t have seen them developed before. It’s unfair, Edward knows. He doesn’t need to look; he had them in his files yesterday – photographs of Rudy, of Hanne and of the sister he doesn’t think he ever met. It brings home the facts harder than ever. He wasn’t in Berlin, but he knows what it was like in London, and it was worse here by the end. He doesn’t say anything as Rudy shoves the photos in his pocket. What do you say about hell raining out of the sky in metal and fire and everything that’s been lost?

“Did you come here just to torment me?”

Edward leans forward slightly. “No, of course not. Look, I don’t want to see your family completely wiped out, and I know that you’re going to come to grief if you don’t part company with these friends of yours.”

“Yes, but, you wouldn’t understand, would you?” says Rudy. “As long as everyone keeps quiet and goes along with whatever the government say, that’s what people like you want – and look where that’s got us.”

“All I can say is that you’re not going to get far. That’s not a threat. It’s a fact.”

“How can you know?”

“Idiot,” says Edward, without heat. “It’s my job. I thought you’d understood that.”

Rudy gives a sudden smile. “Well, how do I know you’re any good?”

“Fair point,” Edward concedes, with a brief smile. “Look, come back to my office now and I’ll convince you. We can’t talk here.”

Rudy shakes his head, mulish again.

“It won’t wait,” says Edward. He clenches his fists and opens them again, feeling cold. He thinks of Mother who knew Hanne Graves well and he wants badly to salvage something to bring back to her. He doesn’t know much about Rudy yet, but he’s sure he saw him once or twice as a sunny toddler. He doesn’t want him lying in pieces somewhere and saving a life is worth it, however selfish his motives. “You need to come with me now, or that’s it.”

Rudy reaches for the gun.

“And leave that,” says Edward. “No, wait, give it to me. I’ll dispose of it. It’s not going to make anything easier if you’re wandering about armed.” 

“I don’t see why I should –”

“My mother is Elizabeth Long – she married a Mr. Taylor later,” Edward continues. “You might know her – or my Aunt Anne and Uncle Ted, maybe Amy and Nancy too. I suppose I’ll have to find a way to tell them Hanne’s dead when I get back.”

Rudy gives him a more uncertain look. “I remember them, I think. Yes.”

“Well,” says Edward. “Either you come with me and I get you out of this, or you’re going to shoot me and have a body on your hands, or I suppose it’ll all wind up with me dealing with _your_ corpse.”

Rudy hands him the gun. “I don’t think you’re all there, you know.”

“And yet you gave me this,” he says, taking the gun and straightening himself with a smile. “Come on. Let’s go, shall we?”

 

Once Rudy’s agreed to that much, it’s hard for him to disagree to the rest, and Edward’s confident of getting him out of the country. He’s not sure what Rudy feels about that, but what matters is that now the boy will have time to work it out. How short his time might have been is underlined the next morning: Edward gets into the office to hear there’s been shooting in the Yorckstrasse. It seems someone other than the authorities – or different authorities, of course – knew what Rudy’s hothead group were up to.

Edward has to go down there and take names, cross-reference them in the files when he gets back, and then he checks on Rudy at the boarding house where he left him, wondering how to break the news to him.

“Did you know?” is what Rudy greets him with – it seems he doesn’t need to. “Is _that_ what you meant?”

Edward puts a hand to his arm. “It had nothing to do with me. It seems someone else didn’t like what they were doing. Now, come on – time to go.”

“What?” says Rudy.

Edward turns. “Well, you’re going to leave the country tonight, if you’re still willing – and before that I owe you a drink.” He gives Rudy a rueful look. “Maybe several, if that’s what you need. I could use one, too.” Maybe several, he silently echoes, because he’s got through the war without being a soldier and he doesn’t want to remember a morning spent going through the pockets of corpses.

“All right,” Rudy says after a pause. He gives a small nod and collects his coat. “Iveson – _why_ did you come looking for me?”

“I told you,” he says. “Family feeling.” Then he gives a short, sad smile. “Well, the photographs, if I’m honest. You can look at the paperwork and pretend it’s not real. Pictures of Hanne, though – I couldn’t ignore that.”

“Are you going to get into trouble?”

Edward gives a guilty grin. “I think not. I mean, that’s not how I pitched it to my superiors. You’ll have to talk to people in London – a debriefing, really. You’re still all right with that?”

“I’ll have to be,” says Rudy. “It was bad enough before. I can’t stay now, can I? Oh, God, why couldn’t it have been Mother and Julia who got out, not me? They wouldn’t have made such a mess of everything.”

Edward waits, patient with his loss. It might at this point be only a very commonplace tragedy, but it still hurts. He’s seen the photographs; a blurry one of Rudy and Julia – Hanne was never the sort to have made a good photographer – and the rest of Hanne or Julia. “Come on,” he says, giving Rudy a light, sympathetic punch to the arm. “Let’s get you that drink.”

 

**7\. Light (1948)**

 

Mother will keep on inviting Mr Iveson – she’s been feeling sorry for him since his mother died – and Julia wishes she wouldn’t. He’s so stuffy and insultingly polite these days, and calls her Mrs Campbell when she hates it. Still, tonight he’s lost his position and, silly as Parliamentary Secretary to the Foreign Secretary sounds anyway to Julia, she holds back from poking fun at him. He seems not to notice the difference; all her cautious sympathy provokes is a request for her not to tease him; that he’s not in the mood for being told how ridiculous he is.

All that’s fairly normal, though and, beyond her annoyance, she doesn’t think any more of it. What’s definitely odd is afterwards, when she looks out the window halfway up the stairs and sees him still out in the garden, leaning against the tree.

“What _is_ he doing?” she says aloud, and to Mother’s instant query. “Mr Iveson. He’s still hanging about out there!”

 

“Mr Iveson,” says Julia, as she reaches him under the tree, her coat shrugged over her shoulders against the chill of the night. “Is something wrong?”

He starts, and turns to face her. Then he puts a hand up to his head. “I was just waiting. My cab hasn’t turned up.”

“But it’s been at least forty minutes!” Julia says, biting back more obvious disbelief. “Why didn’t you come back in and telephone? Are you drunk?”

He shakes his head. “It didn’t seem worth bothering you.”

“Yes, and were we going to find you still here in the morning?” she asks, baffled by his behaviour. “I think you _must_ be drunk – or mad!” She hastens back to the house to do the sensible thing and call for another cab, and then heads back out to him.

This time he’s sitting on the wall and looks faintly surprised to see her return.

“Another cab should be on the way now,” she says, sitting beside him. “But what’s wrong? Aren’t you well?”

He glances down at his hat, next to him on the wall. “No, no,” he says. “It’s nothing – I haven’t slept well lately. Not that I’d have thought it mattered to you, Mrs Campbell.”

“Don’t you dare call me that,” she says, suddenly at liberty to be furious, now that there’s no one else around and they’ve stepped outside their usual bounded social interactions. “Don’t you think that’s just mean when Michael’s three thousand miles away and not coming back?”

He finally looks at her. “Sorry. It seemed like the thing to do – self-preservation, you know.”

The cab pulls up at that moment, so Edward stands, picking up his hat, giving her a small nod in thanks before crossing to it. Julia hesitates for one moment, and then darts after him, climbing in the other side of the cab.

“Chalcot Crescent, please,” he’s telling the driver when he realises and gives a start. “Mrs Campbell! You’re not coming with me!”

Julia pulls her door shut and says, “Oh, yes, I am. Mother’s been worrying about you lately and I think she was right, after all. So, I’m seeing you home. Carry on, please,” she adds to the driver.

Mr Iveson must be tired, since he doesn’t argue; he merely gives a slight shrug and leans back against the seat, angled away from her as the cab drives off.

Self-preservation, she thinks, as she watches him. If he means what she thinks, she could quite happily kill him. Still, that must wait for the moment.

“Mr Iveson,” she says in an undertone, “I know I’m not who you’d have chosen, but I seem to be here, and when we get back to your place, you can explain what’s wrong, or I shall call a doctor – and I _will_ , you know!”

 

Despite her threats, when they arrive at Chalcot Crescent, he still looks taken aback when she follows him out. He tells her to go, but she folds her arms, certain that there’s no way Edward is going to risk an embarrassing scene in the street.

He opens the door and ushers her in, but before Julia can ask anything, they’re met by a middle-aged lady, who comes hurtling out of the front room.

“Mr Iveson!” she says. “I was beginning to wonder if I should telephone someone.”

Edward closes the door behind them; he looks uncomfortable suddenly, glancing at the sheet of paper the woman is grasping in her hands. “I’m very sorry, Mrs Crosbie. I should have explained, but I’ve been at the Graves’s this evening.”

“Then I’m glad to hear it,” she says. “I just – didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d better wait to make sure you _did_ come in.”

Edward looks at Julia, as if for assistance, although she’s pretty certain he doesn’t deserve it and won’t step in. Mrs Crosbie, she knows, is his daily help.

“My cab never arrived,” he says. “That’s all – I promise. I’m sorry.”

Julia nods. “Don’t worry,” she tells Mrs Crosbie. “I’ll make sure he’s all right.” She looks over at Edward again, and makes it a challenge, which he fails to meet, his gaze sliding away from hers. “Mr Iveson, perhaps we should have a hot drink – Mrs Crosbie?”

“No,” she says, already hugging her coat as if they might try to stop her escaping. “I should have been home hours ago.”

“Edward?” says Julia.

He gives a nod and heads to the kitchen, at which point Mrs Crosbie hesitates, wondering aloud if she should make the tea (because perish the thought that a man should make the attempt).

“Don’t worry,” Julia says with another smile. “Shall I?” she adds as Mrs Crosbie looks for somewhere to put the paper down while she battles with her coat. It’s only now as she hands it over that she gives Julia a dubious look – whatever’s in that paper’s enough to distract her even from Edward bringing home strange girls late at night. Julia considers trying to explain, but can’t think of anything convincing.

She watches Mrs Crosbie go and then, with a glance at the door to the kitchen and a losing battle with her conscience, she reads the note.

 

When Edward comes back with a tray, Julia’s waiting in the sitting room, standing there with the letter in her hands, trying to rein in her temper. As soon as she sees him, she loses it, startling herself as much as him.

“How _could_ you?” she says, catching hold of him, and pushing the tray away, out of his hands – china and tea and milk crashing to the floor behind him, and she doesn’t even care. She pummels him for good measure. “My God, Ned, why?”

He stands there dumbly for a moment. “It’s none of your business. You shouldn’t go round reading other people’s private papers.”

“No,” she says, still angry: she’s trembling with contained emotion. “Oh, no, I shouldn’t have looked – I should have gone home and left you to –” She can’t say it; she puts her hand to her mouth and throws the note at him, but it merely flutters back against her, landing on the carpet at her feet. “Did you really mean it?”

He sinks down, sitting on the floor by the sofa, leaning back against it. “No. Well – perhaps, yesterday. But no – not really.”

“Well,” says Julia and sits down beside him, making an effort to keep her voice steady, “I can understand writing a – a suicide note, I suppose. But if you didn’t mean it – if you’d changed your mind – why leave it lying around for your cleaning lady to see it and have a fit? That part I don’t understand. I would have burnt it.” 

Edward gives a reluctant, short laugh. “Yes, I suppose I should have done.”

“So either you still meant it,” says Julia softly. “Or you wanted someone to see it.”

“Julia –”

She slips her hand through his arm. “None of it was me, was it?” Then she’s embarrassed at her self-absorption. “No, no, of course – I didn’t mean to sound so vain –”

“No,” he says. “Not that. I told you – I don’t know. I haven’t been sleeping and there was – it seems I fail at everything, one way or another.”

“You mean losing your position?” she asks. “Or just – everything?” If she lets herself think about being married to Michael and constantly slighted, she can understand that.

He shrugs. “Everything, probably. But it _is_ something of a disillusionment – someone who’s made some large donations to the party wanted Mr Morley to drop me - and he did. I suppose,” he adds, weary again, “one must be realistic.”

“I don’t hate you,” says Julia, as if that can make up for other people who seem to. “I certainly don’t think you’re ridiculous. Well, a little bit tonight, maybe.”

“So you say now,” he says, managing a smile.

She looks back at him. “Well, it’s you who was obnoxious! You’re the one who stopped talking to me – started looking right through me and calling me Mrs Campbell! Do you think, after all the years of being insulted and ignored by Michael, that what I wanted was another man who couldn’t even bring himself to speak to me as if I was a human being?”

“Julia,” he says, and now he really is looking at her, staring at her even. “Julia –”

She wonders what she’s said. “Anyone would be annoyed,” she adds, feeling oddly defensive, and then puts her mouth to her hands and shames herself by crying, when she’s supposed to be cheering him up.

“Julia,” he says again, and there’s an even more wondering note to it. She refuses to look at him. “But I thought – I didn’t mean –”

She punches him in the arm, half-heartedly this time. “Beast!”

“Well, I rather thought you were still stuck on Campbell,” says Edward. 

Julia sniffs, searching for her hanky, and taking his when he hands it over. “Of course I wasn’t. I haven’t been since at least 1943. Why didn’t you ask? Even if you didn’t want to bother me, you could have gone to Christy or anyone else – they’d have told you.”

Edward puts his hand up to his mouth, fully amused for the first time. “As a matter of fact, I _did_ ask Christy. He said you put on a brave face, but you were pretty sick over it. He said you were still besotted with him.”

“Oh,” says Julia. “Well, he’s an idiot!”

Edward leans in and kisses her gently, leaning his head against hers. “Well, then, I’m sorry,” he murmurs in her ear. “I should know by now never to take any notice of your brother.”

Julia chokes back a laugh that might easily turn to tears again and puts her arms around Edward, holding on tightly, clutching at the collar of his jacket, comforted by the solidity of the fabric. He’s real, he’s still here. She doesn’t know why she’s so glad when she’s this annoyed with him, but she only presses her head against his shoulder harder, as if she can defeat his demons by hanging on to him.

“Julia,” says Edward eventually. “I’d rather not be strangled, thanks.”

She pulls away. “Sorry. And don’t read too much into this, either. I don’t know what I think about you.”

“Really?” he says, and he’s amused again, she’s glad to see. He leans his head back against the sofa, watching her. “Of course. I shouldn’t be misled by your concern for me, or you being here now, or throwing yourself at me –”

Julia nods. “Yes, quite,” she says firmly, and then sets about clearing up the mess she made in spilling the tea before making them cocoa, which she feels is safely calming and unromantic. She’s not sure, given that she finds the cocoa tin nearly empty and somewhere at the back of the cupboard, that Edward cares for it very much, but he doesn’t object. When he says he should call a cab to take her home, she shakes her head, refusing to debate the issue: she’s going to see him through to the morning, and so she tells him. 

Edward carefully sees her to the spare room, evidently in the belief that she’s going to stay there. Julia sees no point in warning him that’s not her intention. She steals back downstairs for a few necessary items and when she returns, sheds her blouse, skirt and stockings and then, in her petticoat, wraps the eiderdown around her and knocks on his door. 

He’s already in the bed, sitting up and watching her in alarm. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” says Julia, sitting on the bed beside him, swathed in the eiderdown. “I said I was going to see you through to the morning, and so I am.”

He gave her a wary look. “Julia, really, I don’t think this is a good idea – it isn’t necessary –”

“Isn’t it?” she says. “And don’t worry. Nothing’s going to happen. If you get overcome, I’ve got an encyclopaedia and if you try anything, I shall hit you with it.”

“Julia –!”

She bites back a smile as she sets a candle down on the bedside table and lights it. “Only a small volume, don’t worry. Nothing that should involve us in an awkward session in casualty.”

He looks at her and then collapses back onto the mattress, laughing. “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment, still fighting mirth. “It’s the tiredness. I can’t seem to stop. Julia, you really are the limit.”

She leans back against the pillows. “I know. I’m sorry. I talk a lot of nonsense sometimes. If you don’t want me here, I’ll go, honestly.”

“No,” he says, quieter again now. “No. Stay.”

Julia smiles. “Good,” she says, tired herself now. “So, close your eyes. I’m just keeping watch for a while.”

He does as she says, but presently, he murmurs, an edge of humour in his voice, “What happened with your husband?”

“What happened with your wife?” she returns, and puts out a hand to stroke his hair. “Ssh.” It’s the last thing she wants to go into now. She supposes her infatuation with Michael wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t also come to see her as an opportunity. It had never occurred to her before – and took her far too long after to realise – that someone might consider her family wealthy enough to make the most of the chance to marry into it. Father had got Michael a manager’s job at the printer’s and Julia knew the place well enough to hear many second-hand tales of Michael’s flirting. Yet he was careful enough not to give her obvious evidence and she’d shrunk from using a private detective – so they’d remained until Michael had finally run away to the States.

She stays sitting there until she’s sure Edward’s asleep and then she lets herself slide down against the pillows. She may not have decided anything yet, but she feels happier than she has for years.

 

She’s woken in the morning by sunlight on her face, and Edward, sitting fully dressed on the edge of the bed beside her, a hand to her shoulder. “Julia!”

She opens her eyes to look up at him and gives him a sleepy smile. She _has_ decided, she thinks, amused that it wasn’t already obvious to her last night. She pulls her hand from inside the eiderdown to hold out to him.

He takes it, but distractedly. “Julia,” he says. “Your parents – we didn’t telephone them last night. What on earth will they say?”

Oh dear, she thinks guiltily, but can’t help laughing. “Don’t worry – they must know I went with you.”

“Yes, exactly,” says Edward. “They’ll probably want to kill me.”

Julia laughs. “You don’t know Mother very well, do you? She’ll be delighted when she hears that we – that we –” Julia falters, because they aren’t anything yet, despite last night, and she feels a slight shiver go through her. “Ned, what are we?”

“Goodness knows,” he says. “But I’d like to find out – and I’m thinking of asking you to marry me the moment you’re free.”

Julia puts her arms around him, and leans against him in relief. “Good. I still hate you, of course, but I shall probably accept you out of sheer desperation.”

He kisses her, and then suddenly pulls back. “Ow, Julia, what on earth is that?”

“Sorry, darling,” she says. “I forgot the encyclopaedia.”

 

**8\. Dark (1952)**

“I need a word with you,” he says as she sits down at his table.

She raises an eyebrow and takes a sip of her drink. “Well, that’s no good, is it? I thought you wanted to ask me to dance.

“Any other time and I’d be happy to, but –”

She leans forward. “If you ask me to dance, I might agree to talk later. Besides, we can’t talk sensibly in here, and I don’t wander off with strange men.” She holds out her hand to him.

Edward can’t refuse, but he takes it only with misgiving. He needs a quiet conversation with her somewhere, because there’s a matter of life and death hanging over them. She doesn’t know that – yet. She’s worked out that he’s in Intelligence and wants him out of the way. He’s pretty sure that playing with temptation like this isn’t wise. Sleeping with the enemy is something best reserved for novels, the service has concluded: officers are as inclined to become confused and compromised as anyone else. Still, it’s ridiculous to worry over one dance, not if it gets him where he needs to be.

“My pleasure,” he says, rising from the table and smiling back down at her. He helps push their way onto the busy dance floor, leading her out. She’s wearing a long dress of a light purple colour with star shapes embroidered in silvery thread onto a gauzy material, and silver straps. He doesn’t know what you’d call it; he only knows that it suits her. None of it, though, is anything like as dazzling as the vivid smile she gives him, with a disturbing undercurrent of triumph in it.

“You can talk to me now, you know,” she says, leaning in nearer so that she can speak into his ear, her breath soft on his skin. She knows exactly what she’s doing.

He shakes his head. “Not here,” he replies, and has to lean in himself to be heard. She moves her head to glance at him as he does so, and he feels her cheek against his. “It’s important, though. I promise.”

“Oh?” she says. “But I still don’t even know who you are.”

Edward begins to collect himself; staying on the defensive is a lost cause. “Oh, yes, you do. You wouldn’t have come over if you didn’t. Now, look, Miss Graves – or whatever you’d rather be called –”

“Julia will do.”

“Julia. You’ve got to let me explain – but the meeting you’ve got planned for the morning mustn’t happen.”

She gives him a carefully blank gaze in return, but he can see that she’s lying; he can see her amusement, somewhere in the small quirk of her mouth, the way she holds herself next to him. “I think you must have me confused with somebody else, Mr – what is your name?”

“Edward. Please, come with me for a moment – just outside.”

“And do you say that to all the girls?”

He sees the chance to give her her own again, biting back amusement. “No.” He can say it with all sincerity. “Only you,” he tells her, shifting his hold on her waist and meeting her gaze.

She looks away and then gives a laugh, calling him a flatterer, but he felt the tremor of uncertainty go through her. He managed, if only for a moment, to touch something beyond the façade.

“Maybe I’ll think about it,” she says as the song ends, and she slips her arm through his, leading him back to their table. “Maybe you can persuade me.”

He’s enjoying this now, if he’s honest. He’s beginning to feel hopeful that he can get through to her. It’s been a long while since he took anyone to a dance, let alone someone like Julia. 

“I’ll try,” he says, with a grin. “Let me buy you a drink.”

“Why not?” she returns.

 

By the time he persuades her to leave with him, he’s feeling more light-headed than he ought to be; he’s been careful enough. He’s beginning to think it’s her, stealing his senses, intoxicating him.

“Come on,” she says. “Tell me whatever it is. It’s cold out here.”

He tries to regain some sort of distance, but it’s not possible, when he needs to keep close to avoid being overheard. “Your meeting – I’m serious. Call it off.”

“I don’t know who you think I am,” she says. She casts a look up at him that he finds distracting. “It’s very disappointing – I didn’t think you _actually_ wanted to talk.”

He puts a hand to his forehead, trying to think how to move things forward, but he’s running low on ideas. She shivers, and he abandons his attempts, pulling off his jacket to drape around her shoulders. She catches hold of it, her hands touching his as he tugs it into position for her. All the official instructions won’t seem to stay in his head; there’s only her, closer than ever, and he bends in to kiss her lightly. She glances aside for an instant, as if she might protest, but turns back almost instantly, gripping the fabric of his shirt with her fingers, his jacket sliding off her shoulders as she kisses him back, pulling him away from the dance hall’s entrance, away, into the shadows. His reasons for being here fade into immense insignificance compared to the reality of her. She closes her eyes, backed up against the wall. At first her hand’s still pressed to his chest, both holding him there and keeping him at one remove, but then she relaxes her grip, putting her arms around his neck, her fingers in his hair. 

She pulls away finally, leaning against the wall, still with a hand on his arm, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that he can’t understand. “This way,” she says, and she moves her hand to down to curl her fingers around his. “Then you can tell me about it.”

He’s too slow in understanding; it takes him until after she’s ushered him into the waiting cab, when the floating sensation he’s been experiencing becomes a sinking one instead as he registers his heaviness against the seat. “Oh, God,” he says, all the pleasure of the moment lost in the realisation. “What did you do?”

“I’m sorry,” she says as the cab drives off. “I really _am_ , but you weren’t going to leave us alone, were you? We’re not going to hurt you, I promise – we leave that sort of thing to other people.”

He fights to finish what he came here for: “But you must listen. It’s a matter of life and death.”

“How can it be?” she says, her voice sounding further away. “And I do think the security services ought to have better things to do then waste time and money following us! Don’t you have any Communists to plague?”

“You don’t understand –”

She pats his hand. “Well, neither do you. But that’s not your fault, I expect. We’ll let you go afterwards.”

That will be too late, he thinks, but he can no longer quite remember why or marshal his thoughts enough to bring it back to mind.

 

He’s woken by someone shaking him. There’s not much light in the room and it takes him a while to register anything other than how uncomfortable he is – stiff and cold and aching; half lying, half propped against the wall on a hard floor. His head hurts and he’s finding it hard to struggle back to the surface from sleep. When he tries to move, he discovers that his hands are cuffed behind some piping.

“Mr Iveson,” says Julia, crouching down beside him. “That _is_ your name, isn’t it? I brought you some water.” She holds out the cup. “Can you manage?”

He nods. This situation is humiliating enough already; so much so that he hasn’t even started on being afraid yet.

“You see, we’re not monsters,” she says. “And I wanted you to know that we will let somebody know where you are – once this is over. It’s unpleasant, I know, but it won’t be for long.”

Having managed to get some of the water down him, he forces himself to try and start functioning properly, to speak. He’s angry, and he’d like to vent that at her, but there’s a more pressing issue. “I see,” he says. “Well, now there’s nothing I can do to you, perhaps you’d let me explain at last?”

“Fair enough,” says Julia. “Be quick, though.”

He struggles for words, however, and has to bite back a groan at his grogginess. He gives himself a mental shake: this is his only chance. “You’re right, you know. British Intelligence has more to do than chase after a peaceful pressure group. If I’m here, don’t you think there’s a reason?”

Julia shrugs.

“There’s a hard line movement in the government – even in the service. They think we’re not doing enough to deal with the current crisis. A pro-Europe group assassinating the Foreign Secretary will get them a good deal more support. And that’s what’s going to happen when you meet him this morning: he’s going to die, probably at the hands of a plant in your group, and you’re going to take the blame. I’m not sure what’ll happen to you afterwards, but it won’t be fun.”

Julia pulls back, almost laughing. “That’s impossible, Mr Iveson. Well, full marks for trying – but you people could stop the Foreign Secretary coming. That’s just a conspiracy story out of a novel.”

“Maybe,” says Edward. “But we couldn’t pull the Foreign Secretary out. Major Jemmings is in charge of the security detail – and we think he’s behind the whole thing. Better to try you – if we happened to run into United Europe, well, that could be coincidence.”

She shakes her head.

“Someone told you about me. I bet someone told you the Foreign Secretary would be willing to meet unofficially, too. You must see it’s the truth.”

“You know the flaw in this story?” says Julia. “If it’s true, it’s already too late. If we don’t go, then no doubt we lured the Foreign Secretary into a trap and had him killed. I think I’ll risk it. You should remind your employers about the boy who cried wolf. It must be an occupational hazard.”

“If I see you again, it’ll be in prison. If you call the whole thing off, it might still –”

“I’ll look forward to your visits,” she says, cutting in with decision. “I know it isn’t worth much, but I really _am_ sorry. I even quite liked you, Mr Iveson. I don’t kiss every government agent I meet.” She hesitates, and then leans forward, kissing him briefly on the cheek in farewell. “I think that makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

 

He’s left in the blackness of the cellar. His first thought is to get free, but he halts himself in tugging against the pipes: he doesn’t know what they are and the last thing he wants is to cause a gas leak. He subsides and hopes that Julia is right and he’s wrong. It’s possible. 

He means to try and count the minutes off, to find a way of marking time, but the effects of the drug haven’t worn off and despite his discomfort, he falls in and out of a doze, finding it impossible to distinguish nightmare from reality. They both look the same, except sometimes, in the dreams, she’s still there.

 

The next thing he knows clearly, someone’s kneeling beside him, outlined in the light from the door. “Well, Iveson,” says Andrews, a colleague, “that’s the last time we send you out against a bunch of pacifists.”

Edward’s still too tired and anxious to be amused or annoyed. “What happened? Mr Morley –?”

Andrews works on the handcuffs. “I’ve been out looking for you all morning, so I don’t know the details, but he’s all right. They winged him, but Jemmings had a disappointment, too. One of the group stepped into the line of fire, so now Morley’s grateful and it’s more of a mixed message than Jemmings had in mind. So, that’s something, eh?”

“No,” says Edward as Andrews finally releases him. He shifts cautiously, the movements painful, and rubs his wrists, but he’s icy and numb suddenly, and it has nothing to do with his physical surroundings. “God, no, Andrews.”

He gives him a blank stare. “What? It’s not ideal, but it’s a hell of a lot better than it could have been.”

“Who was it?” says Edward, and he can’t find a way to make the query casual. “What happened to her – I mean, whoever it was?”

Andrews helps him up. “Steady, old thing. That Graves woman. And I don’t know – last I heard she was hanging on, but she can’t last. You can imagine, at that sort of range –”

“Yes,” says Edward, and he has to put a hand against the wall, feeling nauseous. He’d told her. He’d told her what was going on, so she’d seen it when the moment came, so she’d acted – so she’d died. He feels as if he fired the gun himself. And then he thinks: even worse, what if she believed him? What if she thought it’d be a grand gesture, the best way to salvage the situation now it’d gone this far? He puts a hand to his head, unable to bear it. (She was here barely any time ago. She kissed him. The skin on his face burns where she touched it.) It’s utterly irrational, maybe he’s still confused by the drug, but he’d rather they had killed Mr Morley now – anything but this.

It’ll pass, he tells himself, as Andrews leads him to the stairs, shaking him off now he’s steadier. He’ll go home, he’ll get some proper rest; it’ll all mean nothing by tomorrow. (But he thinks of last night, of dancing with her; of how it felt to hold her, to kiss her, and if she played tricks, he’s repaid her a hundredfold – obliterated her and now everything is ashes.)

“Oh,” says Andrews, but not without sympathy. “That’s what happened, is it? You got thrown by the girl. You should be more careful.”

“I thought I was,” Edward says as they leave the cellar. But all he’s done, all he’s learned is betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully the AUs make sense as they stand, but they are: 1. Edward doesn't divorce Caroline; 2. Julia doesn't go to Berlin; 3. Julia picks a different target in Paris; 4. Edward doesn't divorce Caroline (take 2); 5. Julia makes a different marriage of convenience; 6. Julia goes to Germany with her family; 7. Julia's family don't die; 8. Edward stays in MI-5, Julia stays with United Europe.


	20. Like It or Not (PG, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Julia are definitely not having an affair – even if fate and the rest of the world seem to have other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU, 1950s. Edward Iveson/Julia Graves. (Julia says in the ‘Wood’ section of _Different Skies_ that she and Edward would be terrible at having an affair, so here’s that part continued, and indeed, they _are_ terrible at having an affair.)
> 
> Prompts: Lemon-Lime Sorbet #1 (our little secret); White Chocolate #25 (gratitude)
> 
> Notes/warnings: infidelity.

Julia stepped into the lift at the hotel, glad to find it empty when, only seconds before the doors closed, a man dashed inside, clearly in haste, his attention on his watch. She looked away before registering further impossibly familiar details – his height, his shape, the coat he had over his arm – and darted a quick glance up at him, biting back a slight gasp as she realised that, despite the improbability of it, she was right – it was Edward Iveson.

He turned to give her a polite nod and stopped, her own shock mirrored in his face, his reaction almost comical. He nearly dropped his newspaper and stepped back against the side of the lift as it began its jerky upward journey.

“Mrs Kingsley,” he said, and then stopped, failing at finding any other words.

Julia said, in return, “Mr Iveson,” and then stared at the doors in front of her, discouraging any further conversation. They had said all they needed to say last time they had seen each other, in the study at her home, when she had told him they had better not meet again.

The lift seemed to be complaining even more than usual, straining and making a screeching noise before it came to an unexpected stop. Julia had to put a hand to the side, still refusing to look up at Mr Iveson. What were the odds, she wondered, of coming away with Arnold to Newcastle for his conference, only to wind up trapped in a lift with the one man in England she was trying to avoid? She felt almost afraid, as if fate must have stepped in and forced this upon her to override her decision. That thought then made her suspicious, and she turned around with a snap, glaring at him. 

“Did you do this?”

Mr Iveson gave her a startled look. “How could I?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I suppose you could have paid someone.”

He shifted his hold on his paper, briefcase, and coat. “Perhaps, but I don’t know, because I most certainly didn’t. I’m already running late for my meeting and I wouldn’t do such a thing even if that wasn’t the case. If I’d wanted to talk to you, I’d have asked.”

“Yes, of course,” said Julia. “I’m sorry. It seemed so unlikely, that’s all.”

She saw him lose some of his stiffness, his stance softening. “Yes, it is, isn’t it? But I suppose these things happen.”

“So it seems,” said Julia. “However, you shouldn’t get any ideas.” With that, she risked sitting down on the floor of the lift and pulling out her magazine. She concentrated on the _People’s Friend_ as hard as she could, trying not to be aware of Edward, leaning against the side and fidgeting, rustling his newspaper about as he tried to read it. She couldn’t help wishing that she had a more intellectual choice of reading matter with her. Not, of course, that it mattered what he might think.

After another few minutes of not keeping her mind as entirely on her serial story as she had intended, she lowered the magazine and glanced upward at him. “I don’t suppose,” she began uncertainly, “well – is your Mr Harding here?”

Edward folded up his paper again. “No, he isn’t – and even if he weren’t a good two hundred or so miles away, I don’t think he’d do this. Is there anyone else you’d like to accuse?”

“There’s no need to be so scathing,” she said, dropping her magazine altogether and hunting in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes. “You did tell me he had a very odd sense of humour. And this does seem unlikely, don’t you think?”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps it’s fate?” he suggested unhelpfully.

“You don’t have a light, do you?” said Julia, failing to find one in her bag.

“You don’t smoke.”

“I do,” Julia said and then coloured under his curious gaze, because obviously her smoking didn’t have anything to do with sending him away; it had just been coincidental that she’d somehow picked up the habit afterwards. _Oh damn_ , she thought crossly. She wasn’t even convincing herself. “Never mind,” she muttered, pushing the cigarette back into the box and losing it in the bag.

Edward crouched down beside her, pushing his coat, briefcase and paper aside. “You don’t have to stay with him. It doesn’t matter what you think you owe him. He can’t _buy_ you. That’s just – immoral.”

Julia tightened her hold on the magazine and turned over the page, refusing to look at him. “I knew you despised me and, see, you do. If it’s an immoral marriage, what does that make me? And there’s no need to make it sound as if being fond of Arnold or being grateful or loyal is somehow a crime because it inconveniences you.”

He sat down heavily against the wall. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Grateful,” he said in disgust. “Oh, God, Julia!”

She saw the text blur in front of her, but kept her eyes fixed on it. “Please,” she said, “I don’t think this is the wisest conversation for us to be having.”

“I think it’s the only conversation we could have,” he said. “Julia, I’m not joking. As you said, what are the odds of this? Perhaps it _is_ fate. I can say at least that it’s been long enough since we last met for me to feel certain – I love you.”

Julia flung down the _People’s Friend_ and glared at him. “I’m still married to Arnold and perfectly happy,” she said. “Nothing has changed since then, so I trust you will just keep to your side of the lift and read your paper until someone rescues us.” He looked as if he might be about to argue, so she added, more coolly, “I hope I don’t have to ask you to behave like a gentleman.”

Edward merely nodded and stood up again, leaving his coat and briefcase on the floor, but picking up the paper, still folded. He leaned against the back of the lift and set about doing the crossword.

Somebody had better come soon, Julia thought. She could be sensible and keep up a brave front for a while longer, but if he said any more things like that, or they weren’t released soon, she might cry – or worse, throw herself at him.

 

Her silent prayer was answered, somewhat to her surprise, and it wasn’t long after that the lift creaked and groaned as it restarted its journey upward. A minute or two later, and she had left it and Edward Iveson behind her, for which she was thoroughly relieved, or so she told herself as firmly as she could. 

Julia hurried back to the hotel room and shut herself inside. She might be relieved the ordeal was over, but she was also disappointed. If that lift had stayed where it was any longer, how could anyone have blamed her for agreeing with Edward about it being fate? And if that was so, then what could either of them have done to prevent what might have happened next? 

She sat down on the bed and put her hand to her mouth, contradictory emotions fighting within her. She wanted to hide from Edward; she wanted to go and find him; she didn’t know what to do.

One thing emerged the victor in the end: a sense of panic. She couldn’t face Edward again and be sure she’d be so strong, and she couldn’t face Arnold at all. She couldn’t possibly explain if he asked questions, and she couldn’t treat him as if everything was as usual. She felt a sudden, irrational revulsion at the mere idea of him touching her.

Julia wrote a hasty note for Arnold and then packed her small case before crossing the road from the hotel to Newcastle’s Central Station. She was still tense as she waited on the platform, barely daring to breathe until the train from Edinburgh to King’s Cross finally pulled in. She picked up her case and edged forward with the other waiting passengers to board it, only to catch sight of Edward Iveson doing the same, barely even a yard away from her. Her breath caught in her throat. She could only think that she must be seeing things, but it was hard to tell because suddenly the platform and everyone around her seemed to recede into the distance before they tilted oddly –

A woman next to her caught hold of her and she realised somewhat dimly that she must have half-fainted. “I mustn’t miss the train,” she tried to say, and wasn’t sure whether or not she had managed it, or only thought the words. Everything still seemed very peculiar.

“It’s all right, Julia,” said Edward, suddenly there at her other side, picking up her case. She let him take her arm and help her on board and into a small compartment where, sitting again, she began to recover, feeling mostly irritated with herself for such feeble behaviour.

Edward had taken the seat opposite and was watching her with concern. “Are you sure you’re well? We could get off at York – go to the hospital.” 

“I was just surprised to see you there,” she said, and then leant against the window, the world still feeling slightly unreal.

Edward moved forward and put his hand on her arm. “We’d better go to the dining car – get you some tea at the very least. Didn’t you have lunch?”

When had it been it lunchtime? Julia wondered. She’d gone out, got trapped in the lift, and then run to her room and then across to the station. She hadn’t really thought about the time. 

“Well, there we are then,” said Edward, correctly interrupting her silence. “What were you doing, anyway?”

She gave a small sigh. “Running away from you,” she said. “Not very successfully.” She had to close her eyes. “I’m sorry, I still feel rather light-headed.”

“I’d missed my meeting,” said Edward. “No point in staying.” He gave an apologetic shrug.

Julia let the seat hold her, let the misty world rush past the window, and barely registered Edward a hundred miles away opposite her. Of course he hadn’t been at Arnold’s conference, she thought. How stupid she was. He wasn’t in the stationery business; he was a politician, there for an entirely different reason. She had panicked and made everything worse, because if anyone had seen them board the same train, it would look far more suspicious than their encounter in the lift. 

“Everyone will think –” She couldn’t even bother to finish. She didn’t want to make any more decisions about anything. She’d tried; she’d tried all she could to keep her distance from Mr Iveson and now look where they were. What was the point of any of it?

“Come on,” said Edward, leaning forward again and taking her gloved hands in his. “You need some tea and then we can think about everything else.” He hesitated, watching her. “I wouldn’t worry too much. There’s no reason that anyone we know should have seen us, not in Newcastle. Most people are far too busy concentrating on their own affairs to spare too much thought to the faces in the crowd.”

Julia tried to laugh and couldn’t manage it. “Even when they collapse in front of them?”

“Oh, that gets you a minute or two of someone’s attention,” he said. “Nothing more. Now, please, come on. Let me buy you some tea before you pass out again.”

 

Edward ushered Julia along the narrow, rattling corridor of the train towards the dining car, keeping a hand lightly against her arm, or her back as they moved along. He didn’t want her to faint again and she still looked worryingly pale. It would also cause something of an unwelcome scene if she did. Being caught halfway down a train with an unconscious, married lady in his arms was not something he wanted to add to the list of today’s events.

It was worrying that she had fainted at all, he thought, as they finally reached the dining car, and he helped her into a seat. Naturally, she had been startled at seeing him again, but it suggested in itself that either she had been under some stress or strain already, or that she had been unwell lately. He disliked thinking of either being the case, especially when he could do nothing but make the problem worse.

Still, he could buy her some tea and a fruit scone, so he did. As she began to idly stir the sugar into the cup, he straightened himself in the seat across the narrow table from her, and tried to think what to say. “Mrs Kingsley – Julia –”

“I know,” she said, and she sounded so weary and defeated. “It _must_ be fate, you’re right. What can we do?”

He had to swallow back painful emotion. As he’d said to her earlier, he’d had enough time since they parted to think about her and he was sure he still loved her. He hadn’t known, before, whether she’d cared for him at all, but her conversation with him in Mr Kingsley’s library had made it clear to him that she must; that he had not only been courting pain for himself, but for her too. Whether or not she still cared, he couldn’t tell. She sounded so subdued, and not in the least pleased to be with him. He couldn’t take advantage of that, particularly not when he’d learned from bitter experience the folly of assuming that one could easily get over any hitches in a relationship. Oh God, though, he thought, still watching her, he would like nothing more than to get off this train at King’s Cross and take her home with him.

“Don’t be silly, Mrs Kingsley,” he said. “You’ll feel better when you’ve drunk your tea. Nobody else knows what happened today – and there’s nothing for them to be excited about even if they do.”

She managed a small smile and concentrated on her tea, the colour beginning to return to her face. She nodded, and looked out of the window as she drank the rest, and then picked at her scone before seeming to perk up and finish it. He didn’t have to help her along at all on the way back to their compartment. Once they reached it, he asked her again if she was all right and when she assured him that she was, he smiled and pulled out a book, talking easily about how he would have to dash back to Whitehall once they got in, as if he had no thought of going anywhere else with her.

She accepted this, reading her magazine, or at least pretending to read it, since it seemed to be the same one she’d had with her this morning, but later, as they neared Doncaster, she looked up again. “Mr Iveson,” she said. “Earlier, in the lift, you said – you said that you loved me.”

“Yes,” said Edward, lowering his book and telling himself sternly not to get his hopes up and doing just that anyhow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said it, but it’s true.”

She nodded, taking that in. “Then I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

“It’s not your fault,” Edward said, leaning forward. “It’s mine. I knew what I was doing, but I told myself that you would never even notice me. I shouldn’t have been so careless when I could see you weren’t happy. I suppose I took advantage of that.”

She raised her head, stiffening slightly. “I haven’t said that I think anything of you at all, Mr Iveson. And I wasn’t – I’m _not_ unhappy!”

“You told me how you felt in the library,” said Edward. “Of course, you don’t still feel that way. It’s been a while.”

“I was obnoxious to you in the library. I don’t see –”

He wanted to take her hand again, but that brought him back to a realisation of his position and he pulled himself back against the seat. “Your words weren’t very kind, no,” he said with a smile, “but sometimes you’re very transparent.”

“Well, I _do_ care about you,” said Julia. “Of course I do. But I don’t see why that would suddenly be a reason to leave Arnold when he’s been so kind – when he’s done nothing wrong. Nothing’s changed, Mr Iveson.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I ought to be shot.”

She gave a short laugh, and suddenly crossed over to sit beside him, taking his hand in both of hers. She wasn’t wearing her gloves, and he gave her a startled look, his book falling down between the window and the seat. He didn’t even notice.

“Nothing’s changed,” she said, and he saw the light of determination in her face, her mouth and brows set in a line, “but there’s also nothing we can do about getting away from each other until this train gets to London, so this – this little time is ours. Surely nobody could begrudge us that? And then we won’t see each other again – and I’ll go on, being happy with Arnold and you’ll find someone else.”

Edward couldn’t even begin to argue, even though he knew that it couldn’t be a good idea; it wasn’t that simple. She was next to him, playing with his fingers; she was all there was in the world. He put his free hand to her shoulder, steadying them both, pulling her into a better position and then, at an angle to avoid her hat, he leant in and kissed her. He felt something in her give somehow, a breath of relief escaping her as she slid her arms around his neck, pulling him nearer, kissing him in return. He moved one hand up to her head, when he realised she was trying not to cry, the salt of her tears on his face, and he pulled back in dismay.

“Julia?” he said.

She shook her head, struggling to keep back further tears and, her arm still around him, pulling him tightly into a hug. He could feel her fighting the threatened sobs, pressing her head against him. “I’m sorry,” she said eventually, her voice muffled by his jacket.

“It’s all right,” he said. He couldn’t help being disappointed, but he knew her suggestion had been pure folly. When she pulled away, wiping her eyes and casting a guilty glance up at him, her face red and the weave of his jacket imprinted into the side of one cheek, he merely grimaced and passed her his handkerchief.

Julia took it and sat back against the seat. “It’s not all right. It’s all my fault. I married Arnold just so I didn’t have to sit in an office and type up the accounts and it was a shameless thing to do. If I hadn’t –”

“We might never have met.”

She blew her nose. “And all the better for you,” she said darkly. “But it was my mistake, Mr Iveson – Edward. I did it with my eyes open and I can’t pretend anything’s changed. I have to see it through – but I am so sorry.”

“Let’s not talk about it,” he said. He searched around the seat for his book, fishing it back out. Julia caught at his wrist, startling him.

“I didn’t mean you to stop,” she said.

Edward looked back at her and opened his mouth to say that it was as well he had, but again, he didn’t. He couldn’t summon up the will to object, not now. As she said, this was all that they had and he didn’t want to waste it either, even if it only increased the hurt in the end. He leant over and found the hatpin to remove her hat, ignoring her amused protests, and then kissed her again, this time unimpeded by headgear.

The train slowed jerkily as it started its approach to Doncaster, so they pulled apart, Julia rescuing her hat, and Edward his book, waiting to be clear of the station. However, once at Doncaster an elderly couple joined them, the woman sitting down comfortably on the seat opposite Edward and Julia while her husband fussed over their baggage. Edward realised he should be grateful to them for interrupting a situation that could only have grown increasingly unwise, but he found it difficult not to glare.

Julia hid her face against his shoulder, and he could feel her struggling not to laugh. It wasn’t funny, he thought, and stared out the window, but all the time he could feel her leaning against him, her hand holding his. He didn’t want this to be all they had. He could feel the loss ahead of him as a physical ache, even though she was still beside him. He turned his head away and watched instead the flat, eastern countryside flying past for what seemed like hours longer than it should have been, but not anywhere near long enough. It never could be. Julia, beside him, grew heavier against his arm and her fingers relaxed, half slipping out of his. He didn’t have to turn his head to know that she’d drowsed off. He only wished he could.

 

Edward saw her into a cab at King’s Cross, returning to the show he’d tried earlier of being sensible and brisk. Once she was out of sight, he headed off down Euston Road, looking for a cab to take him to Westminster, where he took his seat in the Commons but didn’t register a single word of the debate. He merely removed himself at the first decent opportunity and headed for the bar. He wondered if getting drunk would help or if it would only make things worse.

He ordered a Scotch whisky and hedged his bets as yet, making it last and trying not to think about anything else other than eavesdropping on incomprehensible snippets of other people’s conversations.

“Iveson,” said Mr Harding, arriving at the bar beside him and giving him a smile before he ordered a drink. “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Edward couldn’t think of any reason why they should be, and stared back, waiting for Harding to explain.

“I heard,” Mr Harding said, lowering his voice, “that you’ve finally had success with the charming Mrs Kingsley. So – congratulations!”

Edward felt himself seized by an uncharacteristic blind fury, a knee-jerk reaction to distance himself from Harding and his attitude. His fingers tightened around his glass and he flung the contents at Harding.

“Good grief,” said Harding, somewhat inadequately, blinking for a moment, before pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his face.

Edward froze. Bad enough that he’d just flung whisky at anyone, but at Harding, a senior Cabinet minister who had always been supportive to him – and in Westminster at that. He let go of the empty glass he was still holding and stammered out an apology.

“Sir?” said the barman to Harding, with an inclination of his head towards Edward, evidently ready to have Edward thrown out.

Harding shook his head at the man. “No, no,” he said, with an amused glance at Edward. “I don’t imagine he’ll do it again.” He looked at Edward as he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe down his face more thoroughly. “Do tell me, Ned – was that for being wrong or being right?”

“There’s nothing going on between us,” said Edward. “I don’t know why you think there could be.”

Harding raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” he said. “And you’re throwing drinks about because she means nothing to you, eh? Besides, the word’s got around. If it is true, then you need to be a damned sight more discreet, and if it isn’t, then I don’t know what to say to you.”

“How the hell did anyone know?” said Edward. “What have they been saying?”

Harding shrugged. “That you missed your meeting this morning for as assignation with Julia Kingsley – and then, by all accounts, you ran away together!”

“No, we didn’t,” said Edward, leaning forward to his eagerness to put him right. “We got stuck in the lift and then happened to catch the same train home, that’s all. I won’t see her again – not that it would make any difference if I did. She’s not interested in me and wouldn’t betray her husband even if she was.”

“Well, Jackson, who was at the meeting said that when he asked the hotel staff where you were, they said you’d been with a lady, who had booked out only a few minutes after you, and apparently someone else saw you together on the station.”

Edward put his head in his hands.

“Next time,” said Harding, “you’ll need to be considerably more careful, otherwise your career is going to be in ruins – and so will her marriage.”

 

At home, Julia found it hard to settle to anything. She kept telling herself that meeting Mr Iveson again changed nothing. Everything was still the same as it had been last time she had met him.

Yet she had found it so hard to leave him at the station. It was as well that he had been so firm and business-like about needing to get back to Westminster, she wasn’t entirely sure she’d have known how to let go of him.

It was as well, she thought, taking hold of herself again, that at least one of them managed to keep their heads at any given time. Somehow that didn’t cheer her and she wore the carpet down further before finally stopping to telephone Arnold and let him know that she had arrived home safely.

Having kept that conversation as short as she decently could, claiming to be tired, she went into the living room and listened to the radio, closing her eyes and doing her best to lose herself in the music.

 

When Arnold came home the next day, Julia still hadn’t decided what to tell him. There was really nothing to tell, nothing other than a few kisses in a railway carriage that nobody else would ever know about, but if he had heard any whisper of it from other sources, it would be much better to try and explain straight away.

She met him at the door and helped him off with his coat, but pretended to be too busy with that to remember even the usual perfunctory kiss in greeting. She couldn’t, just yet, she thought in revulsion. She couldn’t be touched by anyone who wasn’t Edward until she’d had a little more time to push the encounter out of her mind.

However, before she could decide, Arnold stopped her, putting a hand to her arm that she had to bear. If it suddenly felt so wrong, that was her fault, not his. “Julia, my dear,” he said, “I know that these things are inevitable in the circumstances, but I must say that I appreciate your discretion in the past. This business, on the other hand, can’t go on. In my opinion, Iveson is in earnest over you and that always means trouble. People are talking.”

Julia found herself speechless. She should say something, she thought, but no words would come. It felt as if she’d welcomed home an alien, not Arnold. They seemed to have been engaged in two entirely separate marriages by the sounds of it.

“Julia?” he said, and turned.

She leant against the door. “Well, people may be talking, but I promise you there’s nothing for them to talk about. I ran into Mr Iveson yesterday, but nothing happened!”

“Julia,” said Arnold, and then cleared his throat. “It’s difficult enough as it is. I’d rather you didn’t lie to me. You were seen leaving the hotel together. Now, I’m sorry, but you need to do something about this before the gossip turns into full-fledged scandal.”

Julia looked up slowly. “Oh, I will,” she said, feeling suddenly an entirely different person to the one who had followed Arnold into the room. “I promise you that.”

 

“Mr Iveson,” said Julia on the other end when Edward picked up the telephone. “Are you there?”

He raised an eyebrow at the wall. “Well, I don’t know who you’re talking to if I’m not.”

“Don’t be silly,” Julia said. “I mean, are you there if I come round now – as soon as I can?”

Edward had been on his way out, but he abandoned all thoughts of a walk immediately, although he reminded himself sternly at the same moment, that it would be extremely unwise to get his hopes up again. “I will,” he said. “Julia, is that wise?”

“Does it matter?” she said. “Apparently, the whole world is already certain we’re having an affair, so I don’t see it matters what we do. I’ll see you shortly, then.”

“Julia!” said Edward into the phone, but too late. He put the receiver down and wondered what exactly he was supposed to make of that.

 

Forty minutes later, she arrived. Edward had, in the meantime, checked that the house was tidy, gone into the front room to watch from the window, realised that was foolish and gone back to the study to do something useful in the meantime, only to find that an impossibility. When he finally heard the knock on the door, he leapt out of his chair and tore down the hallway.

“Hello,” said Julia, when he opened the door. She wasn’t wearing her coat, only a jacket and a hat and an old dress he hadn’t seen before, and she was carrying a small, battered brown case in her hand. She didn’t look subdued any longer. There was a noticeable glint of something in her eyes – anger, or perhaps more than that. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look quite so alive. “I hope you meant the things you said the other day, because I’ve just left my husband and I’m not at all sure where to go if you don’t want me.”

Edward ushered her in, shutting the door behind her, and turning, trying to find the right thing to say. In the end all he managed was, “Julia?”

“Have you heard the news about us?” she asked. “I thought so. But did you know this isn’t my first affair? I don’t know who my other lovers can have been – I can’t think of anyone in the least likely – but that doesn’t seem to matter in the least.”

Edward still wasn’t sure what to say to that. And she’d only said she was here because she had nowhere else to go. It was worrying. “Look, Julia –”

“I suppose,” she continued, “that I’m just very naïve and unsophisticated after all. And I thought I’d been so pragmatic and cynical about the whole business.”

Edward took the case from her and faced her, forcing her to look at him. “Julia. What happened? Are you here – are you here for me?”

“Why else would I be here?” she said, and moved forward to reach up and hug him. He let go of the case and put his arms around her in return, closing his eyes in relief as they clung to each other. “I’m sorry,” she said, into his shoulder. “I was so angry – I didn’t think! I shouldn’t be here – your career –”

Edward wouldn’t let her go, not for that. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll do something else. I’m lucky enough – I’ve got other income – and, oh, none of that matters just now. We’ll be all right, Julia.”

“It doesn’t seem fair, though,” she said. “It’s not your fault, and I should have stopped to ask on the telephone, but – Arnold thought I’d been having dozens of affairs! I felt so stupid – I made you go away rather than betray him and he just assumed – he assumed –”

Edward found himself wanting to laugh; he wasn’t sure why. “Shh,” he said, letting her go at last, standing back to look at her. “Of course you were angry.”

“It _was_ immoral,” she said, leaning back against the wall and looking up at him. “Marrying him. You were right. He was kind to me at work and I didn’t think anything of it until one day he asked me to marry him. He thought I wouldn’t be surprised and so I didn’t like to turn him down flat. I promised him I’d think about it. And then went I went home to my flat, I realised I didn’t even have the shillings for the heater because I’d had to buy a new hat and it seemed so – so stupid to sit there and be alone and not have things and do a job I wasn’t even much good at, when I could marry Arnold and organise things and – not be alone any more.”

Edward took a step nearer, putting out a hand to touch her face lightly. “Didn’t it occur to you that you might meet someone else?”

“Why should it?” said Julia. “I had a – a love affair of sorts in the war and it was – just nothing in the end. There was never anybody after. I don’t think I’d ever fallen in love, not really – I didn’t think I ever would. I thought being married that way – being useful – would at least be better than being alone.”

Edward pushed her hair back from her face, watching her, finding it hard to breathe. “And have you now?” he asked. “Fallen in love?”

“I don’t know,” said Julia, meeting his gaze, “but I think so, and I mean to find out.” She slid her arms around his neck and pulled him nearer. “Besides, I need a divorce and I thought you might be able to help with that…”


	21. Weekend Break (PG, Supernatural AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Diana Foyle)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“The Government isn’t doing enough to counteract the rise of demon worship in more remote areas of the country. It’d be a different story if it were happening in the Home Counties.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1951; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Diana Foyle. (Since HotR started out as a fake 1970s UK TV show, then its supernatural AU must surely be the 1960s/70s TV one where every quaint village is harbouring dodgy satanic cults...)
> 
> Sangria #29 (All hope abandon, ye who enter here), White Chocolate #24 (malevolence), Lemon-Lime Sorbet #11 (a night to remember) + Brownie + Chopped Nuts + Malt – January Games Week III ( _Edward/Julia – supernatural au & lost weekend_) + Birthday Prompt 2015 ( _I'm nonviolent with those who are who are nonviolent with me. But when you drop that violence on me, then you've made me go insane, and I'm not responsible for what I do._ from .)
> 
> Notes/warnings: full of shames quaint but evil village cliches.

“Julia,” said Edward from somewhere immediately beside her. “Julia!”

She refused to open her eyes. She didn’t want to wake, but Edward persisted until she forced herself to try and turn towards him, but found she had her hands tied behind her back. She bit back a cry, confused; fear beginning to slice through her drowsiness. 

“Don’t panic,” said Edward, who was lying beside her on the bed. “Can you remember what happened?”

She tugged again at her hands, and managed to turn so that she was no longer lying on top of them. “Untie me.”

“I’m tied up as well,” he said, his tone apologetic. “Look, Julia, _do_ you remember what happened?”

Julia frowned and thought about it: they had been driving down to Devon to spend a weekend with Diana Foyle and a few others. They’d got partway through the Quantocks and had stopped, needing petrol, and they’d found an inn with a tea shop attached. They’d had tea and scones with jam, and that had all seemed fairly normal, even if a bit too picture perfect to be true. There hadn’t been any other patrons at the time and she’d talked to the lady running it – Mrs Dewhurst – while Edward went on out to the car, only to return to say that they seemed to have a puncture.

Julia had rolled her eyes at Mrs Dewhurst and gone to sit back down while Edward tried to sort out the car with the help of the man from the garage over the road. They’d been kind enough to bring her a cup of tea – and after that, she couldn’t quite think. 

“I remember the tea shop,” she said eventually. “I’m not sure about anything else.” She had an inexplicable, blurred impression of being somewhere where there were candles and a lot of red curtains, but it didn’t make any sense. 

“You drank the tea.”

Julia had just about worked out that much herself, but it didn’t help. “Yes. Although, if you didn’t, I can’t say that seems to have done you much good.”

“Well, it did a little,” he said. “They brought me one as I was finishing with the car, but I didn’t want it. I had a sip to be polite and tipped the rest over the shrubbery when they weren’t looking. Just as well. That was enough to make me feel light-headed for a while.” He paused, casting an anxious look at her. “Are you’re sure you’re all right?”

Julia managed a weak smile. “I’m not sure of anything right now, but I seem to be.” She still felt heavy – if they stopped this discussion, she suspected she could easily drift back to sleep again – and she had a slight headache, but beyond that she felt reasonably like herself.

“Well,” said Edward, “that made me realise something was going on, but I couldn’t leave, because they had you and you were just –” He stopped again, and then said, “So I played along and they didn’t seem to notice the difference. It’s only – well –”

Julia met his gaze. “Ned, I’ve been drugged and tied up. If you know why, you’d better explain, no matter what it is. The truth can hardly be much worse than my wild imaginings right now.”

“It might be,” said Edward. “Do you really not remember any of it?”

She thought about the vague memory of the candles and red curtains, and people in dark robes, but she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a dream. “It’s all so blurry. I don’t know. That thing Diana keeps saying, about the problem with satanic cults in the West Country – it can’t be that here, can it?”

“It seems to be,” said Edward. “Look, Julia, can you turn over? See if we can untie each other.”

Julia obliged, and after some shifting about between them, she felt Edward begin working at the cords around her wrists. She pressed her head into the pillow, facing away from him, and said, “Before all this happened, I was reading a detective novel where the hero was investigating some cultists hiding in an idyllic English village, who were sacrificing people. Girls, mainly, because they always do. But surely not in real life?” 

“I’m afraid so,” said Edward. “We were led down into the cellar for some sort of dedication ceremony involving some highly questionable Latin –”

“Oh, yes, never mind the sacrifices,” said Julia, “as long as they parse their Latin correctly – or whatever it was.” She shivered. “I am _not_ going to be anyone’s sacrifice!”

“Well, no. It turns out their particular, ah, deity has a taste for politicians. Julia, you shouldn’t have told that woman I was an MP.”

“Well,” said Julia, “there’s no need to make it sound as if it’s my fault!”

He frowned. “Shh,” he said, ceasing for a moment to tug at her bonds. “Best if they don’t know we’re awake, I think. Anyway, apparently they usually have to make do with parish councillors, if that. I gather that, having at least been in the same room as the PM quite a few times, I should have some promising associations of power.”

“Edward, this isn’t _funny_ ,” she said. “Are they serious?”

“They seemed to be. And then they finished the ceremony by making us drink something else – I tried not to, but I couldn’t, not without giving the game away, and you weren’t in any state to try and help me force our way out.”

Julia only thought how typical that was. She might have got as far as pretending to have been drugged, but if she had, at that point, she would have fought and kicked and tried to get free, rather than take something that could even be poison for all they knew, but not Edward. He weighed up the logic of the situation and then did something incredibly stupid.

“How long has it been?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Even if I could look at my watch, it probably wouldn’t be much use at this point.” Edward stopped work on the cords. “Can you slip out of them now?”

Julia gave the ropes around her wrists another tug, without success. “No, sorry. Anyway, what about me?” she asked. “If it’s you they want to sacrifice, then what happens to me?”

“I, er, think they want you to perform the deed,” said Edward, and then added hastily, as if that made it any better, “I suppose there’s a certain amount of sense in it – makes it harder for the police to get them if technically it’s –”

Julia pulled away from him in her alarm at the idea, causing the cords to bite into her wrists, but she hardly even registered it against the horror of the suggestion. “I don’t care about their warped logic,” she said. “We have to get out of here!”

“Believe me, I agree,” said Edward. “And we’ve got one advantage – I imagine they’ll suppose that we’re still out cold as yet. Julia, I think I might have it –”

She tugged at the cords and felt them give, enough for her to pull her hands loose. She sat up, rubbing her wrists, before setting to work on his bonds. He must have been trying for a while before she regained consciousness, she thought; he’d pulled at them enough to tighten the knots and leave red marks against his skin. She picked at the knots with determination for a few minutes, while he tried to keep still and be patient, until she managed to work it lose and unwind the cords.

“That’s a relief,” said Edward with a smile, rubbing his wrists now, much as she had, before setting to work on the cords round his ankles.

Julia lay back down, waiting for him to be done, feeling tired again. She hadn’t meant to let herself fall back asleep, but the next thing she knew was Edward shaking her, an awakening that caused her to glare at him as he forced her to sit, gripping her by the arms.

“Julia,” he said, “come on, stay with me.”

She gave a nod and put a hand up to rub her eyes. Her brief lapse had only made her feel worse again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” he said, pulling her round slightly and untying her ankles for her. “They must all be mad.”

Or something’s making them do it, thought Julia. She had, after all, gone to school in the West Country and heard tales like this before – stories of some dark spirit of the place that fed on blood or power, or fear. She glanced up, interrupted in her uncomfortable imaginings by the sound of the tap running. Edward was at the small basin in the room and now he carried a cup of water back to her. 

“Here,” he said. “This should help.”

Julia took it gratefully. “What now?” she said, when she’d handed it back to him.

Edward drew himself a glass, and then gave her a grin as he drank it. “Escape, I think, don’t you?”

Easier said than done, thought Julia, but nodded, since there was nothing they could do but try. If they stayed here, then unless this was some incredibly ill-conceived hoax, they would have to meet their assigned fate and that didn’t bear thinking about.

“If you’re up to it, that is,” he added, giving her another anxious look. He hesitated, and then added, in more abstracted mode, “You don’t happen to have a hairgrip on you, do you?”

Julia raised her eyebrows and thought about it. “No,” she said. “But I think I may have a couple in my bag – do I still have my bag?”

They both glanced about the room, Edward spotting it dumped down in the corner along with her coat. He passed it over. Julia hunted around inside it and emerged victorious with two hairgrips – and then watched with considerable interest as Edward straightened out the hairgrip and set to work picking the lock. 

“Is this something they teach you on entering the House of Commons, or do you have a criminal past I don’t know about?” she queried, keeping her voice low as she joined him by the door.

Edward glanced upward at her from his crouching position with a slightly guilty smile. “Neither,” he murmured, “but inclining more to the latter than the former. Come on.” He stood and reached for her hand, as he cautiously pulled the door ajar, peering out. There was nobody else in sight, so he opened the door fully and led her out along the wood-panelled landing, towards the stairs. There was a latticed window between the two, emphasising again the postcard-prettiness of the place despite its true nature.

“It seems empty,” Julia whispered, cautiously following Edward down the stairs, trying not to tread too loudly. 

Edward halted, surveying the hallway below. “I suppose they think we’re still sleeping.”

Julia still felt as if that was what she would rather be doing and she didn’t want to stand there, waiting to be found, so she poked him into moving on down until they reached the bottom.

The main door was in front of them, half open. They paused and looked at each other, then Edward caught hold of her hand again and they hurried through it. He tugged her back against the whitewashed wall of the inn, spotting a man heading round the back. Julia scanned the rest of the forecourt. She couldn’t see anyone else out and about, but their car was still sitting in front of the gate. She tugged at Edward’s arm, and he nodded.

Together, they dashed forward and made it into the car.

“Come on,” said Julia, bouncing in her seat with impatience. “We can’t just sit here!”

Edward ignored her, fumbling for the ignition and finally starting the engine.

“Go, go,” said Julia, twisting around to see the woman emerging from the garden behind them. “Now!”

Edward didn’t need telling, already driving them off down the lane, and accelerating at uncharacteristic speed. 

“Thank goodness,” said Julia, sagging back against the passenger seat. “Just keep going.”

“I am.” Edward drove on, navigating the narrow, uneven street through the village, heading back for the turning they’d taken off the main road. He got right to the sign at the edge of the village and then pulled up abruptly, stopping beside the words ‘Welcome to Nether Courcy.’

Julia felt her mouth go dry, and she clutched at the seat. She didn’t need to wonder what he was doing: she felt it too – a strange compulsion overwriting their need to get away. “Ned,” she said breathlessly. She felt the words welling up in her throat; she couldn’t swallow them. “We have to go back.”

He nodded, reversing so that he could turn, but she could see her own alarm mirrored in his eyes. 

There wasn’t anything she could do, however. She simply remained sitting there, leaning back into the seat and even smiling slightly as they drove back to the inn at a far more sedate pace than they had left it. Edward parked the car neatly outside the inn and, after he’d turned off the engine and climbed out, crossed round to open the door for her.

Julia got out, looking up at him as she said, “Thank you.”

And then, abruptly, they were free of whatever compulsion had taken hold of them; left standing there in the forecourt looking at each other in dismay. Julia stretched out her hand to Edward, even as several villagers descended on them. 

One of the men caught hold of her and even as Julia tried to push him away, she felt light-headed again, another wave of heaviness sweeping over her with thoroughly inconvenient timing. She fought not to sag in her captor’s arms, forcing herself to stay conscious and turned her head to see another of the men hit the gravel beside Edward while more people advanced on them both.

“Enough of that,” said Mrs Dewhurst moving forward before Edward could try to pull Julia free. “Your wife’s expendable, if it comes to it.”

Julia swallowed back anger and couldn’t look at Edward, fuming at being used against him. Not that it would make much difference, she thought. There were too many of them – and if they could do whatever it was they’d done to them in the car, they didn’t stand a chance of escaping anyway. If only she didn’t feel so slow and stupid, though. 

Still, she reminded herself, there were some things she _did_ know. That trick with the car had proved that whatever was going on here was no pretence; no group of bored villagers playing at devil worship for kicks. There was something evil and powerful lurking in the village. Julia had gone to school in the West Country and she’d had at least one teacher who’d drummed into her head basic precautions that could be taken and how to protective charms against dark magics. Her memory now was unhelpfully vague on the subject, however. She thought there had been quite a few things, but all she could come up with now was buttercups, which wasn’t especially useful. 

There were plenty of other things, she thought, racking her brain, if only she could remember them. Dragged back into the empty café and catching sight of the tables, another came back to her: rock salt. 

Table salt would do at a push, though, wouldn’t it? She drew in her breath, and risked a glance at Edward to one side of her, trying to think how to signal to him to cause a distraction, and failed. She merely gave him a short smile and then let herself fall back against the man who was still gripping her arm. He stumbled back under her weight with a cut off cry, backing into one of the tables and knocking sugar bowls and miniature preserves flying as Julia slid onto the red carpet.

Edward must have realised she was up to something: he tugged himself out of Mr Dewhurst’s hold as if to try and get to her, causing more disturbance.

Julia sat up, even as the man tried to help her up. She put her hand out over a fallen salt cellar, curling her fingers around it unseen before she stood. “I’m sorry,” she said, pocketing the salt in her coat. “I still feel a bit funny.” She turned instinctively to look at Edward, searching for him as he also picked himself up off the floor. He seemed to have gained a red mark on his forehead now, as if he’d struck himself or been struck, she noted guiltily and hoped she wasn’t wrong about the salt.

When they were then marched back up the stairs, Julia couldn’t keep back a small sound of protest as they pulled Edward off to a different room, evidently not about to leave them alone together again. Edward didn’t say anything, but then he hadn’t, not since they’d got out of the car, Julia realised. He was probably angry. He had a habit of withdrawing like that when he was truly raging about something.

Left in their original room, alone and tied up once more, Julia lay down on the bed and stared upwards at the beamed, tilting ceiling and then turned over to face the rose patterned wallpaper.

“Oh, _damn_ ,” she said, and closed her eyes, trying not to let herself cry tears of frustration.

 

She must have immediately fallen asleep again, she realised on waking from strange dreams to find it semi-dark. She sat up in panic and pulled at her bonds, only to find them loosen much more easily this time. She’d tried to make it awkward for the man when he tied them, and it seemed she had succeeded. She’d just managed to slide them off, when she heard the lock turning and had to try and pull them back on again in a panic. She achieved a result that would only pass muster without too close an inspection, so she hung onto the cords and looked up at the man who had walked in.

He had another glass of something in his hand, clearly meant for her, and she felt the blood creeping out of her face. She hadn’t thought of that somehow. “No, no,” she said in instinctive protest, not because she expected him to listen. He merely grunted slightly and held it to her mouth, making sure that she’d swallowed at least a little of it, despite her attempts to spit it out. Having achieved his aim, he left without any further words.

_No_ , thought Julia again, and it was a statement of determination rather than an expression of the panic she was fighting to keep from rising within her. She must prevent herself from being completely incapacitated as she doubtless would be if she lay here and let the drug take effect. She slipped off the cords once more and pulled the salt cellar out of her pocket before hurrying across to the sink and picking up the glass Edward had used earlier, she tipped as much of the salt as she dared into it. She still needed some of it for her original purpose, but salt had other, more prosaic uses and right now, the need to fight off the drug was paramount, she thought as she filled the cup with water. Then, bracing herself for both the taste and the result, she swallowed it.

She had been feeling increasingly vague and sleepy already, but her head cleared a little as soon as she threw up into the basin. She felt distinctly shaken and weak before she had finished, though. When, she wondered, had she last eaten? How long ago had she had that scone and tea in the tea shop? It could have been that morning or the day before. She had no idea.

Still, she certainly had no time left to waste on speculation. Julia placed the salt cellar carefully on the pink counterpane and fetched her bag, fishing around in it for her small sewing kit and nail scissors. She fought to cut the pockets out of her coat, then gathering and tying the material at the neck by strands of cotton to make two pouches, into which she poured all but the last few grains of salt, and then put one in each jacket pocket. That done, she hastily tidied the incriminating evidence back into her bag and after also stuffing three pound notes from her purse into her pocket with them, reluctantly dropped it back under the bed. They mustn’t notice anything too different about her or the room when they came for her. She then filled the salt cellar with water, and added that to the motley collection in her pockets before lying down again on the bed.

She didn’t fall asleep this time, too much on edge, waiting for her captors to return. When they finally came to take her away, she tried to remember how it had felt when she’d drunk the tea before, letting herself go limp and docile as they cut away the already useless bonds and pulled her to her feet. They led her downstairs and she had to remember not to look up, wanting to see where Edward was, but merely following along meekly until they reached the cellar.

It was the room she had remembered; the one at odds with the whitewashed walls outside, the low beams, and the delicate pink and yellow flowers of the wallpaper inside. There were several candles about the room, some positioned on heavy wooden furniture, others on metal stands and the room was encircled in curtains, possibly hiding some of the more prosaic functions of the inn’s cellar. She thought she could glimpse the shape of barrels behind one of them. 

The man behind her shoved her forwards, towards the cloth-covered altar at the centre, and she found herself face to face with Edward. She forgot her pretence for a moment, smiling at him before she caught herself, but he hardly seemed to notice. She hung her head again, watching the surrounding ring of villagers in dark robes through her hair. There was a slight gap in their circle close to the altar, she noticed, beyond which the darkness seemed to be deeper somehow. Julia tried not to shiver.

They helped Edward onto the altar and then Mr Dewhurst, recognisable even under the robes by his voice and bulk, raised the knife over him, chanting. That was probably the terrible Latin part, Julia told herself, trying not to let her courage fail her. Mr Dewhurst then reached out for her, drawing her nearer, and although he let go and intoned out further chanting, it must be a preliminary to handing over the knife to her. She couldn’t have much time left in which to act.

Julia discreetly reached in her pocket, unscrewing the lid off the salt cellar. It had leaked on the way down here, but thankfully only a little. She drew it out, hidden by her hand. No one was looking at her; their attention was all on Mr Dewhurst and Edward in front of her. She drew in her breath, and threw it. Not at Mr Dewhurst or any of the others, but into the waiting darkness. Something inside it screeched, making her press her hands to her ears, wincing, and finding she couldn’t block it out – it was half in her head and half real. 

Julia let go of her head and straightened up to see the robed figures in panic, their attention on that shadowy space. She took her chance to grab at Edward, pulling him unresisting off the altar. He slid down beside her, pulling at the cloth as he went, and Julia seized on that for inspiration, giving it a vicious tug, bringing it down with them and sending candles and bronze bowls, oils and incense flying. Before anyone could respond, Julia, shoved her spare protection charm into Edward’s jacket pocket with one hand and pushed over the nearest metal candle holder with the other, sending it tumbling against the nearest curtain.

One of the villagers gave a shout of panic at the resulting flames, pulling down the curtains hastily, trying to stamp out the fire, but Julia’s earlier efforts had also ignited the altar cloth which evidently had oil on it from one of the dishes. The rest of them still seemed to be experiencing difficulties from their deity’s pain. Julia only hoped they wouldn’t recover for a good while.

She reached for Edward’s hand. “Come on, Ned,” she said in his ear, “stand up!” She dragged him still unresisting to his feet and headed for the door, pushing over another of the candle-stands as she went, this time directly into the hooded figure who tried to catch at them. He had to leap back with a sudden yell, trying to prevent his robes from catching alight. Julia didn’t stop to help; she hurried on past, reaching the stairs as something exploded behind her. She didn’t turn around, only pulling Edward onwards up the stairs. There must indeed have been spirits of the more usual sort down there, she thought in triumph, her heartbeat accelerating with the adrenaline.

“Come on, hurry,” she hissed at Edward, who was helpfully pliant, but not very quick. She had to keep pulling him upwards, coming to an abrupt halt as they crashed into a young man at the doorway at the top, he and she yelling out. The young man looked past her, apparently more concerned with the clouds of smoke now following them out than the two of them trying to make their escape. 

Julia took advantage of that, pushing past him. “Well, don’t just stand there! Run and get the fire brigade!”

There was another, smaller explosion from downstairs, and he paled. “Oh, God!” he said, and raced off, presumably to do as she’d instructed. 

Julia merely tightened her hold on Edward’s hand and carried on, making their way out through the inn and tea shop as fast as they could manage. She had to fight the urge to keep looking behind her, expecting to be chased after by at least six angry cultists any minute, but it seemed that her attack on the unreal creature of the darkness and the all too real fire – which might well also hurt the creature, as fire often had the power to do so – were still occupying their attention. It couldn’t last, though, and the thought kept her moving onward.

They reached the forecourt to find the car still there, as if awaiting them. Julia hesitated in suspicion, before realising that they might well have had it there ready to get rid of her at least, possibly Edward’s body too, depending on what the ritual entailed doing with the corpse. _Don’t think about that_ , she told herself; the mere idea making her queasy again. Edward had a point about the cultists’ logic. It would certainly be difficult to explain away how she came to be alone in the West Country, having either mislaid her husband or with his bloodied corpse in the car beside her. It would have been, she thought with a shiver, a truly nightmare awakening.

“Edward,” she said as she hung onto his arm, willing him to be fully himself again, to help her, but all he managed was a dazed smile, so she sighed, and steeled herself to carry on. She hunted in his pockets for a book of matches, and then set off to commit more arson, this time using the inn’s former stables, now converted into a garage. She found an old petrol can and made good use of what little was left in it, trailing the liquid out behind here as she re-emerged. Then she lit the match, stepped further back, and dropped it, watching the small flame move hopefully back towards the outbuilding.

She hurried back to the car and Edward. The smoke was visible now, coming out of the inn, and she could hear people shouting, but still nobody else had emerged. Behind her, the garage, with its wooden doors and thatched roof, started to catch alight. Julia bit her lip at the sight, wondering what she thought she was doing. For someone who’d never committed arson before, she now seemed to be going about it wholesale. But it was their own fault, she thought. If people tried to murder Edward and blame her, what else was she supposed to do? She could hardly let them get away with it. 

“Edward,” she said, ushering him round to the driver’s side, and pushing him in. “How are you feeling?” She hoped the fresh air would be help a little – and the drug must surely start wearing off soon anyway. 

He frowned slightly and almost seemed about to respond, so she squeezed his arm encouragingly before darting round to open the boot. Now that she knew they really were up against evil magic, she had a better idea of what might have impeded their escape last time. The light from the fire in the garage behind her illuminated the gloom and she spotted it – a posy of ugly, dried weeds, tied together with a black ribbon. Merely pulling it out made her feel sick, but she counted on her protection charm made with the salt, and took hold of it for long enough to turn and throw it into the fire.

Another minor explosion followed, and she had no idea whether it was the magic or the fire reaching one of the two rusty old vehicles that had been inside. She didn’t think they should wait to find out.

She shut Edward’s door, and then got into the passenger side, slamming her door after. “Now we can go,” she said and put out her hand to his arm, looking him in the eye. “Ned, drive! You have to!”

He put his free hand to his head, his movements still slow and clumsy. “Julia – I don’t think –”

“Just do as I say,” she said, afire herself with determination and the need to escape. “We only have to get out of the village itself – safely out of sight and that demon’s circle of influence!”

Edward blinked, as if trying to focus. “That what?”

“You heard,” she said. “Now, go, Edward! Come on! Start the car – lights on – get us out of here! I’ll make sure we don’t smash into anything, don’t worry.”

He did as she ordered, driving the car out of the forecourt even as she heard a definite shout from behind them. She would have turned to look, but she had to catch hold of Edward and help him steer. 

“Just keep your foot on the accelerator,” she said. “And, yes, a demon. Just because they’re rare in Kent doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I’d tried to tell myself that it wasn’t true – that sort of thing had all gone out since the war, but it hasn’t. Diana’s right.” She pulled at the wheel, making sure they didn’t hit the low stone wall ahead as the road twisted out of the village.

Edward nearly fell forwards against the wheel as they reached the signpost that had been their stopping point on their last escape attempt.

“Oh, goodness,” said Julia, shaking him back to some sort of consciousness, and grabbing the wheel again. She was no longer sure she could keep her promise about not crashing the car if this kept happening. “Ned!”

He shook his head, and straightened himself. He was beginning to recover slightly, she realised in relief. “God, Julia, we can’t do this.”

“Shall we stay and see if we can apologise nicely to the demonic cult for attacking their deity and burning down their place of worship?” said Julia. The road ahead was mercifully a lot straighter and empty as yet. “Perhaps this time they won’t try to kill us!”

Edward glanced towards her. “Then keep talking at least. Keep me awake.”

“I will,” said Julia, although now that they were finally out of the village, she had lost some of her determination, sagging back into the seat, starting to shake slightly in reaction. And, dear heavens, she thought, putting her hand to her mouth, she’d set light to the cellar, with all those people down there – and then the garage. Who knows what harm she might have done?

“Julia.”

She shook herself hastily. “Sorry. Just keep going. I’ll look out for somewhere we can pull in safely, but I think we want a few more miles between us and them, don’t you?” She squinted ahead. “And slow down, there’s a junction ahead!”

They stopped a little too abruptly.

“Right or left?” said Edward, and then gripped the wheel, leaning forward. “I can’t _think_ yet.” He put a hand up to rub his forehead; a gesture of impatience.

Julia closed her eyes and tried to remember the route they’d taken in from the main road and had no idea. “Right.”

“Try to avoid bringing us around in a circle,” said Edward, who must be feeling a little better, despite his misgivings.

She nodded. “I will. And slow down now we’re out of there.” She tried both to keep an eye out for somewhere to stop and keep watch on Edward in case he passed out at the wheel. She had no idea what time it was, other than late, because it was dark and there was only one other vehicle they passed at all. It was just as well, she thought, because they’d have a hard time explaining what they were doing if someone stopped them. Edward would get fined, or maybe even arrested. At the very least it wouldn’t go down well at with the party or the press. He’d probably have to resign.

“Slow down,” she again, catching sight of what she needed at last. “Now, reverse back here.” They pulled in beside a private track, and Julia got out and opened the gate, hoping that Edward could get through it without her. He managed it, and having shut it behind him, she directed him a little further along the mud track and then they stopped, out of sight behind the hedge and some trees.

Edward sank back down in his seat with relief. He turned to her and she reached out for his hand, finding that he was trembling even more than she was. He was, after all, usually a particularly careful driver and their escape alone would have been enough to bring out more silver threads in his hair, she was sure. Add to that the whole nearly being sacrificed part and it was a wonder they hadn’t both been reduced to hysterics.

“What now?” he murmured.

She shifted in her seat to be closer to him. “We stay here till it’s light and then we find our way first to a telephone box, and then to Diana’s. Even if it’s Sunday by now, she’ll still be there and she won’t turn us away.” Julia looked at him. “Edward, are you all right?”

“Are you?” he said, turning his head towards her with an effort. 

She put her other hand up to his cheek and nodded. “Yes. But how do you feel? Is it wearing off? Should we drive on until we find a doctor?”

“No,” said Edward too hastily, evidently not prepared to drive anywhere else in that state. She couldn’t blame him. Now that they’d stopped, she wasn’t sure she could face trying it again, either. “I mean, I think it is – and, honestly, Julia, it’s a miracle we got this far unhurt. Let’s not push our luck.”

Julia nodded. She’d never have even suggested it, if they hadn’t been completely desperate. And, she thought, when he was more himself again, he’d probably point out to her that if she’d let him teach her to drive when he’d offered ages ago, it wouldn’t have been necessary in the first place. She leant over and kissed his temple, if at an awkward angle. “It ought to be all right,” she said. “I recovered from the effects of the tea just fine, and it seems to be the same thing.”

Edward didn’t respond, slumped into the seat and leaning slightly towards her. She shook his arm, causing him to stir unwillingly. It seemed a little cruel, but Julia didn’t want to take any more risks. Now that they had stopped, the fact that he could so easily have been killed earlier sidled into the forefront of her mind, stealing any composure she had left. She pressed herself against him, as far as she could, and slid her fingers back into his, stroking his hand with her thumb.

“I’m not letting you die,” she said, slightly incoherent but past caring. “I’m not.” She stayed where she was, semi-dozing and every so often shaking him to be sure he was still alive until she finally fell into an unintended slumber.

 

Julia woke, cold and unrefreshed; also cramped, and leaning at an odd angle against Edward. She screwed up her face in instinctive distaste, wanting to hide from this uncomfortable world in sleep, before she remembered what they were doing out here, and she sat up abruptly.

“Edward,” she said, shaking his arm. “Edward!”

He opened one eye unwillingly and gave a slight groan. “Oh, God,” he said, straightening himself with a wince as he woke more fully. “My head. And – ow – my neck!”

Julia swallowed, almost tearful with relief. He sounded fully himself again, whatever else might be wrong. She put a hand to his arm. “I know,” she said. “But we’re still here and that’s something.”

He leant back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Right now, I’m not entirely sure about that.”

“Stop complaining,” said Julia. “It won’t help.” She pushed open her door, and stepped outside. Her legs were stiff and she felt slightly unsteady – it had been much too long since she had eaten, whenever it had been. Thinking of that, she turned aside and walked along, hunting in the hedgerow until she returned with a clean hanky full of blackberries.

Edward had also got out, walking up and down next to the vehicle, and turned. “I do hope that’s not breakfast.”

“I can eat them all myself quite easily,” said Julia, climbing back into her seat. “Don’t tempt me.”

They weren’t the choicest of blackberries – probably only left at this point because they were too near the road – but it was definitely a moment when beggars could hardly be choosers and they were at least better than nothing, especially as they helped with the thirst. Not enough, but a little.

 

Driving on, they first had to establish where they were and whether or not they were heading in the right direction, which took work; Julia having to study the map intently while Edward read out the names of each tiny village on the signposts they passed, but it transpired that they weren’t too far off course and it only took half an hour’s navigation to get them back onto the right road towards Exmoor again.

They should have stopped in one of the villages, of course, or at a farm, and get some food and water and clean up properly – there had been a very shallow stream Julia had found behind the bushes where they’d stopped for the night, but she hadn’t been able to do much beyond splash her face and hands with water. However, neither of them felt willing to risk another visit to a remote hamlet or farmhouse, not after the one they’d just left in such a hurry.

Julia was beginning to think that she must be sensible and insist stopping at a village shop, or taking a detour to the nearest town where they should be safe enough, when Edward muttered something under his breath, and pulled up onto the edge of the road. Julia looked across and saw what had caught his eye: there were two small tents in the field and, behind them a camp fire. That reminded her of the fires she’d started last night, but she refused to think about that.

“We can’t,” she said, amused at the idea of leaping out on unwary campers, and even more amused at the fact that Edward was the one proposing such a thing. “Ned!”

He got out. “We can ask. And if they’re strangers round here, they shouldn’t belong to any dangerous occult groups.”

 

The four boys had been somewhat taken aback to find Edward and Julia interrupting the last of their breakfast, but they’d been as helpful as they could, after that, almost as if unexpected guests were a usual camping event. They’d let them have tea with plenty of milk in it – they’d been trying, they said, to finish up the milk anyway – and a sausage and a half each, and then they had let them fill their empty flask with water. That accomplished, they felt more like something approaching human beings again, and, having thanked them and given them one of the pound notes, Edward and Julia got back on the road and headed directly for Diana’s. They had planned to also stop and use a public telephone, first to warn Diana, and also to alert Whitehall and bring in the proper authorities to deal with Nether Courcy, but again, they found themselves reluctant to stop in any of the villages they passed by.

“We can’t avoid all quaint villages for the rest of our lives,” said Julia, giving a nervous laugh. “Not unless we mean to emigrate.”

Edward shrugged. “We can for today. It isn’t far now, anyway. There’s no point in stopping at this late stage.”

“I’ll be very glad to be back with people we know,” said Julia. “It’s beginning to feel rather like a nightmare already – completely unreal.”

Edward stared ahead. “I’m sorry.”

“Ned?”

“What else should I say?” he returned, still keeping his attention fixed on the road and avoiding looking at her. “I let you down badly, I know.”

Julia sighed. “Don’t be silly.”

He didn’t deign to answer.

“What were you supposed to do, examine all tea shops for signs of black magic?” said Julia. “Taste my scones and tea for me? Anyway, that’s not true. If you hadn’t kept your head to begin with, we’d have been done for. And then, after that, I kept _my_ head. Mostly.”

His mouth twitched with unwilling humour, and then he let out a breath, glancing over at her. “Even so –”

“Honestly,” said Julia. “You couldn’t possibly have foreseen any of it. No one could.” She felt herself growing shaky and worryingly tearful again. “We’re just very lucky to be alive.”

“True, I suppose. I won’t let it happen again, though.”

Julia shook her head. “It won’t.” It mustn’t, she thought. They would never be so lucky again. 

 

Edward was right; it wasn’t far now to their destination and it was only twenty-five minutes later that they finally pulled into the long gravel drive of the manor house Diana had begged the use of for the weekend. 

“Is this it?” said Julia. “You’re sure? We don’t want to make a mistake, after all.” Manor houses in the middle of nowhere sounded even more likely to harbour trouble than picturesque hamlets.

Edward parked outside the main door, and nodded over at Diana’s car by way of reply, before reaching over to squeeze Julia’s hand. She couldn’t say anything, finding herself close to tears again in her relief.

“Julia,” he said, turning back to her, watching in dismay as she lost that particular struggle and put her hands to her face and simply cried at last. “ _Julia_.”

She shook her head, unable to stop.

“It’s all right now,” he said. “Julia.”

She tried to swallow back the tears. “I know it is; that’s the trouble.” Then she raised her head to look at him, her vision blurred. “Edward, I set fire to the inn. I might have killed people.”

“Julia,” said Edward, putting his hand around hers again, and raising the other to stroke her cheek. “They were going to murder me – maybe you, too. You did what you had to – and I’m sure they’ll have got out.”

She nodded, wiping her eyes, but she knew he couldn’t possibly remember what had happened in the cellar, or not clearly. She could and she wasn’t anything like as certain about that. She also knew that if there had been a demon involved, the villagers might not have been themselves, which made her actions even worse.

“We’ll find out,” said Edward, “and I’m sure I’m right – but it wasn’t as if there was much else you could do. It wasn’t only us. No doubt they’d have tried the same thing with other people after us if you hadn’t stopped them. We certainly weren’t the first. They made that patently clear during the initial ceremony – that bit I _do_ remember.”

She dried her eyes and let him help her out of the car, although she could tell that he wasn’t as steady as he would have liked; as relieved as she was to have reached safety. Safety – and food and hot water, Julia realised, her spirits lifting a little at the thought.

“Good heavens. It’s you two,” said Diana, now hurrying down the front steps towards them as they remained standing on the gravel, hesitating to enter. “We’d quite given you up – whatever are you doing here now? Did you muddle the date?”

Edward turned. “Diana! I’m so sorry – we were delayed. I suppose everyone else has left by now?”

“Well, yes,” said Diana. “Two days ago!”

Edward tightened his hold on Julia’s arm and they looked at each other.

“It’s Tuesday?” said Julia. “B-but it was only Friday yesterday – well, it can’t have been longer ago than the day before yesterday. That would be impossible!”

Diana arched her eyebrows. “It’s most definitely Tuesday. Whatever have you two been doing? You look dreadful!”

“Maybe it was skewing time itself – that thing,” said Julia. She shivered. It seemed a lot less impossible than it should have done. She’d heard other tales of the kind.

“I think,” Diana said, viewing them both with bemusement, “that you had better come in and clean yourselves up, and then explain to me what’s been going on – very slowly and with simple words.”

Edward ran a finger around his collar. “Er, it’s not what you might think. We’re both entirely sober, I assure you.”

“Now, anyway,” added Julia, putting her arm through his, on the verge of laughter that might prove to be hysterical. “Last night, on the other hand …”

“ _Julia_.”

Diana shook her head. “Stop it, both of you, and come inside! And, Edward, if it was anyone else, I don’t suppose I’d believe you, but with you two, the possibility of it being due to some particularly wild party hadn’t even occurred to me.”

 

Later, while Edward was making a telephone call to Whitehall, and Julia was gratefully drinking a large cup of tea and eating toast and jam, Diana returned to the room and sat down opposite her.

“What is it?” said Julia, not quite careful enough to swallow her mouthful first and not much caring, either. She felt as if she hadn’t eaten for a month.

Diana leant her head against the settee’s back. “You really made your way out of there, armed with salt?”

“I might have set fire to some things as well,” said Julia, trying to ignore the sinking, leaden feeling of guilt that returned every time she thought about it. Obviously, she didn’t hold with people trying to sacrifice Edward, but there were surely better ways to deal with it than by setting fire to everything in sight. “But, yes. Mainly salt. I remembered from school, thankfully.”

Diana was still watching her. “Yes,” she said, “but it takes more than that. I’ve been doing some research into it – it is about using the right materials, but from what I’ve gathered, it’s more essentially, well, either magical ability in that person – or I don’t know – intentions – spirit – strength of heart.” Then she smiled. “Although, I suppose now that I think about it, I can’t say I’m that surprised.”

“I think I’d have to agree,” said Edward, standing in the doorway; catching them both by surprise with his reappearance.

Julia gave a smile, fighting tears again – she was ridiculously quick to turn on the waterworks today, it seemed, but it was so unlike him even to go that far in front of anyone else that she couldn’t help feeling touched. She held out her hand to him, and he took it, sitting down next to her.

“And,” he said, into her ear as he slid his arm around her, “let me assure you that you haven’t killed anyone – at least not yet, as far as I know. Plus, Whitehall are sending some people down there to clean up after us and no more unwary travellers will be snared in that particular net.”

Julia leant against him in relief, before reflecting on his words for a few moments and then giving a frown. She turned her head towards him, her cheek brushing against his jacket. “What do you mean, not yet?”

“Well, I gather one of the group is badly injured – but they seemed optimistic about it.” He closed his eyes, resting his head against the sofa back. “I wouldn’t worry. The chances are they’ll soon be facing multiple murder charges anyway. Hanging might well be on the cards.”

Julia poked him. “Ned, don’t be rude. Wake up.”

“Actually,” said Diana, looking over at them both, “I think you should get some rest while you can – then you might be able to manage some sort of coherence when the police and government agents descend on us. And,” she added, addressing Edward as she got to her feet, “next time I tell you that the government needs to tackle something, perhaps you’ll listen to me before someone tries to sacrifice you!”


	22. Devil's Bargain (PG, Time Travel AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward gets a chance to go back in time and fix his and Julia’s most fatal mistake, and he’s not sure he even cares about the consequences...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1960; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves. 
> 
> Prompts: Sangria #12 (Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.) + Chopped Nuts, Malt – Truth or Dare x2 ( _Time travel AU - what if one (or more?) of your characters could go back to the past and change something? How would it go dreadfully wrong and how quickly would attempts to rectify it multiply? Would the end result be a world that any of your characters would even recognize anymore?_ and _One of your characters is offered their dearest wish but it comes at a steep price. This can involve a genie or devil or other magical means or just a set of logical circumstances and opportunities._ , both from shayna611), Gummy Bunnies (also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo square “deals with demons” and Trope Bingo square “Trust and Vows.”)

Edward hadn’t had such a strange meeting in this office since someone had threatened to shoot him and that had at least been understandable in its own way. The man who had come to speak to him today might look the picture of the perfect civil servant with his understated suit and his bowler hat placed on the desk in front of him, but he’d just offered Edward a means of travelling back in time. Edward wouldn’t have believed him, but he’d demonstrated his abilities by stopping time around them for a moment. The clock on the wall had ceased to move and the secretaries in the outer office were frozen in position. It wasn’t a trick: either it was true, or the strain of the last year had finally driven Edward mad. And if he was mad, it was at least an interesting madness with more possibilities than sanity seemed to have to offer.

Edward watched the dark-haired man warily. The stranger was currently sitting there, staring back at him with a bland expression on his unremarkable face, giving nothing away. “And what,” said Edward, “is the catch? It’s a little too much to swallow – you coming in here and offering me a way out of my current difficulties at the right moment. You must have some ulterior motive.”

“Consider me your fairy godfather.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “Or the devil, after my soul? Although if so, you only had to wait another week or so.” 

“It doesn’t matter in the end, does it?” said the man. “I don’t believe you can refuse.”

Edward gave a slight nod, because he had made so many devil’s bargains in the last year alone that worrying about one more seemed ludicrous, especially when this one promised to actually solve his problems. All his other options were desperate, next best thing solutions. “Still, I’d like to know what the catch is. There must be one.”

The man placed the small metal cube on the desk between them. It glinted in the light for a moment. “The catch, then. It can only be used once by any one person, so choose your destination carefully. It exacts a great toll on the user – the further you go back, the worse the effect. Once you arrive at the time chosen, you will have twenty-four hours before you are returned to the present time. If you change anything in any way, the results cannot be predictable or controllable and you might come back to an unrecognisable world, if you’re not careful. Of course, the reverse journey also takes it toll – it’s not impossible that you might simply die at that point. It puts considerable strain on the human frame, you understand. At the very least, it’s guaranteed to take a few years off your life.”

Edward raised his hand to his mouth, hiding his smile. That really would not be a problem in his case. “But why me and not somebody else?”

“I’ve had my shot,” said the man. “And I think you might make the change I’m after. I also think you’ve little enough to lose that you’ll take the opportunity. Doesn’t that make sense? I don’t have to be a demon.”

Edward picked up the silver-coloured box and turned it over in his hands. It was polished but plain. The only thing on it was the dial for the date, not unlike a desk calendar. “I’m not up to date with current research in the field of physics, but I’m fairly sure that this at the very least makes you a magician and not a scientist.”

The man gave a small shrug. “A matter of semantics, some might say.”

“Isn’t it by default demons or devils who offer temptations such as this?” 

The stranger tilted his head to one side. “And yet, Foreign Secretary, despite the risk, despite my possibly demonic nature – you’re going to use it, aren’t you?”

“As devils go,” said Edward, tightening his hold on the box, “you’re just the latest and far from the worst. I’ve sold my soul several times over by now. I am a politician. It’s a professional hazard. So – my wife, my country, my own sorry neck – yes, I think I’ll take that over something that’s past hoping for and may not exist.” He shifted in his seat, still at a loss to make out the other man at all. “Of course, perhaps you merely want it used by anyone – enough times, perhaps, and the effect upon reality itself is catastrophic.”

“What a fantastic idea.”

“I have read some science fiction. These things rarely end well.”

The man held out his hand. “Shall I take it back? Just in case.”

Edward set the date and time he had in mind. He didn’t even need to check. It wasn’t one he would ever forget. If this didn’t work, he would never get the chance to live long enough to even try. “It seems to me that reality is getting worse by the minute.”

 

There was only one option in Edward’s mind: two years ago, after Fields had told him about the planned raid on Paris, and before he’d told Julia. Of course, other wilder thoughts had drifted through his head as soon as he’d started to believe in the possibility of changing the past – that he could save Julia’s family, or go after her in Berlin, or propose a more sensible arrangement in Paris, or even further back, stop his mother from leaving – but any of those might result in drastic changes. Even if he thought that failing to marry Julia might prove better for her, he was selfish enough not to want to lose her, and, in any case, he couldn’t contemplate anything that might erase their daughter Emily from existence. He didn’t know what Julia would think about this expedition, but he knew without question that she’d be rightly furious at risking Emily.

 

Edward arrived where he’d started out from, in his office in Whitehall. Luckily, his 1958 self having already left for Carlton Place, it was empty and there was no one there to see him as he gasped out from the pain of the experience and clutched at his chair to keep from falling. After a moment of standing there, breathing in and out, waiting for it to pass, he found he could open his eyes again and straighten up. He put the box in his pocket and looked at his watch. He needed to hurry if he was going to get to Chalcot Crescent and catch Julia in time.

He almost didn’t make it, having to take the Tube, keeping his head down, and feeling distinctly out of place – ever since he’d had a Cabinet position he’d been driven about most of the time. Well, that would go too, if he succeeded. The idea was a relief, he found.

Edward arrived in the hallway just as Julia was pulling her coat off the peg, ready to go out. He caught hold of her arm. “Julia.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked and then frowned at him. “Goodness. Edward, are you all right?”

He had to bite back instant irritation at the implication that he’d aged that much in only two years, however difficult they had been. “Yes, yes, of course I am!”

“Well, you look ghastly,” said Julia. “Are you _sure_ you’re not coming down with something?”

Edward forced himself to ignore her. He couldn’t waste this chance on a ridiculous argument, like the couple in the folk tales who had lost their three wishes by means of a disagreement over a string of sausages. “Never mind that. Can you come out for a walk with me – and maybe a meal after?”

Julia pulled her coat against herself, slowly, hesitating before answering. “Something is wrong, isn’t it?”

“I think it could be,” he said. “There’s nothing wrong with me, or anyone else, as far as I know. State business, I mean – the future. Yes.”

Julia raised her eyebrows and then let him help her on with her coat, flicking her hair out from under the collar as she turned to face him. “I see. Or I don’t, rather. Have you run away? Will your entourage come chasing after you?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Edward, thinking of his 1958 self at his official residence at Carlton Place, oblivious of his future self trying to run off with his wife. It was a very peculiar thought. “Officially, I’m not here – I’m busy drafting out my resignation and a final speech for the Commons tomorrow. Over Paris. Fields is going ahead with it.”

“Oh, no,” said Julia, following him out the door. “ _Damn_ him! Damn all of them. I don’t see why you have to do that! Now they’ll just do what they want.”

Edward took her arm. “I must. And, believe me, they’ll do what they want anyway. Julia, I have to resign tomorrow. Whatever happens, whatever you think – even if I change my mind, I must.”

“Edward?”

He led her along the street towards Primrose Hill, the same route they must have taken a hundred times over the years, together and apart. “You must have learned by now that I have a bad habit of backing out of these things. I want you to make sure I don’t.”

“Yes, but what about Paris?” said Julia. “And you know what Fields is – you said yourself he’ll appoint some wretched yes-man if he can.”

As they reached the parkland, he pulled her round to face him. “It’s not solely his decision. That’s just an excuse. And I’ll speak to someone at the French Embassy, perhaps. I still have one or two contacts. I don’t mean for us to give up on anything.”

“Yes, but what about the organisation?” said Julia, and despite the fact that she was saying it to him and not to the other Edward, he felt his heart give a small, sick lurch at the memory of all the trouble that idea had caused, both in the wider world and between them. “I expect I could still get in touch – perhaps they could do something.”

Edward shook his head. “No, no – at least, not now. It’ll be an option again once I’m not Foreign Secretary, but you know it isn’t now. Just make sure I resign and give that speech. Julia, promise me.”

She raised her head slightly to look at him more closely, her blue gaze shadowed by wariness. “Ned, what is this? You’re shaking. Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Just promise,” he said.

Julia frowned. “What I don’t see is why you need me to, if you’re so set on it. Are you planning to bump your head and forget everything before tomorrow?”

“You never know,” he said with a grin, and then became serious again. “I don’t trust myself – it’s always too easy to come up with plausible excuses, and I cannot be part of this government any longer. But I _do_ trust you – so, please promise me that. We’ll fight in other ways – better ways.”

She laughed. “All right. And finally have our house to ourselves again – and you’ll be around more often.”

“Yes,” said Edward. “I hope so.”

Julia nodded. “Well, then. That’s agreed – now can you stop being so odd and take me to dinner?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s only that this might be the most important thing I’ve ever asked you.”

She caught at his coat, tugging him nearer. “I have known you rather a while, darling. I can tell when you’re in deadly earnest. I don’t understand, but I promise. Although I do think you’re worrying too much as usual. You can be very determined – and very underhand – when you make up your mind to do a thing.”

Edward laughed, and couldn’t keep from kissing her, despite the public spot. He couldn’t be sure what he’d return to, or even if he would return. He was within an ace of suggesting they return to the house instead, no matter how unwise that might be, when she pulled back.

“You’ll get us had up for making a public nuisance of ourselves,” she said. “And then you won’t need to worry about speeches or changing your mind – you’ll be asked to resign in no uncertain terms.”

He took her hand. “Well, that might work. I’m sure Harding would count it as an achievement, if nothing else.”

“Come on,” said Julia. “Let’s go to dinner. Where do you think – the Apple Tree again?”

Edward smiled. From his point of view, they hadn’t done that for at least two years. It was difficult to stop being a public figure, especially in London. “Yes, let’s.”

 

Afterwards, he sent her off in a taxi to Carlton Place, bundling her in as he promised to follow – he merely had one telephone call to make first.

“I could wait,” said Julia, clearly puzzled at his behaviour yet again.

He shook his head. “No, no. Go on. I won’t be long.”

It drove off and he realised that he now had a long night to fill before he was returned to 1960, with nowhere to go and nowhere he ought to be. He walked about for as long as he reasonably could, and then, having made his way down to the Embankment, sat on a bench, hunching into his coat and staring out at the river, the lights of London reflecting in the water.

He moved benches every so often before any police came to ask him to do so, and as it got light, amused himself by going through his pockets to find out how much of the remaining money he had with him had a pre-1959 date and decided, with some relief, that it amounted to enough to allow him to buy a cup of coffee. That done, with various places opening around him, he walked about the streets, lost in a crowd of mostly suited and behatted commuters, and then headed for Charing Cross Library and disappeared into the bookshelves for a few more hours. He wondered, when he looked up from his reading, if he’d done enough, or if his strange appearance in two places might distract from the central issue and cause events to take an unexpected turn. But Julia had promised, and he trusted her to see that through and, besides, heading off to confront his past self would likely only derail everything. Arguing with himself had never got him anywhere.

As it drew into the afternoon, he set off, heading northwards towards Primrose Hill, stopping at a pub before he reached Regent’s Park, scratching together a few last coins for a sandwich, making it last as long as possible as he listened out for the news on the radio with increasing alarm until he was jolted out of a train of despairing thought by the sound of his own voice on the radio. His heart thudding, he got up and left, glad to get out into Regent’s Park. He’d succeeded, but who knew what sort of life that would leave him with, or what other hidden costs there might be? He would have been broken all the more if he’d failed, but it was a victory that meant his life would become a terrifying unknown in one irrevocable swoop – and that was if he really was transported back, as promised. Maybe his visitor had come up with a far more novel way to be rid of the Foreign Secretary than the man who had tried to shoot him, and he would be trapped here.

He concentrated on the scenery and the other passers-by instead, and on the need to get to Chalcot Crescent again before he was returned to 1960. He didn’t want to suddenly appear out of nowhere in the middle of a London street, especially not when people might still know him as the former Foreign Secretary. He checked his watch again and reassured himself: he had a well over an hour left by his reckoning, and he was already over halfway.

 

The house was empty, so Edward crept inside and hid in his study, pulling the magical box out of his pocket and waiting for it to work, all the while wondering what the hell he would to do if it didn’t. He needn’t have worried: he felt the tug of it, almost like a magnetic pull before its powers kicked in and shifted him out of time. The world blurred dizzyingly and, as a wave of pain hit him, he knew that the more likely problem was as his visitor had warned him – that he might not survive the journey.

He found himself in a study that had changed in multiple small ways; all the piles of paper and books having shifted themselves around him, and he caught at the desk as he doubled over in pain, before crashing to the floor. There was a buzzing in his ears and the pain was everywhere, racking through him. He found it hard to breathe for a moment, before the worst of it cleared, and Julia reached him. She threw herself down beside him and caught hold of him, her hand gripping his shoulder.

“Edward!” she said. “Dear God, what is it – what’s wrong?”

He could not yet manage to answer, leaning in against her. The pain was almost gone, but he was too much shaken to try and move or speak.

“Ned,” Julia said in his ear, trying to sound calm but he heard the tremor in her voice. She hadn’t let go of him. “Is there any pain? Did you eat or drink anything you shouldn’t?”

He shook his head. “No – nothing like that. It’s all right, Julia.”

“No, it isn’t,” she said. She pulled back and squinted at him. “You look _dreadful_! I’m phoning the doctor.”

She moved away from him, leaving him to try and struggle up from the carpet, but she had the phone on the desk in her hand before he could manage it, and the next thing he knew, he heard her speaking into it, her words drawn out in an incomprehensible way that puzzled him, until he saw the carpet looming much too close again and let himself pass out, almost gratefully.

 

“Yes, you’re perfectly all right,” Julia was saying, kneeling beside him again as the room began to right itself. “No need for me to call the doctor! Well, I have. Hold on, darling – I’ll get you some water.”

As she left, Edward shifted himself cautiously across the carpet and then leant back against the wall. He felt groggy enough to justify Julia’s fussing, but he needed to find out what had and hadn’t changed. He and Julia were still here, still together, and that was a start, but, despite the fogginess in his mind, he was already worrying over the other possibilities.

“There,” Julia said, suddenly back again and handing him a glass. 

He took it and drank the water, glad of it. “I am all right,” he said. “I’m sorry, Julia.”

“You gave me such a fright,” she said. “I was heading down the stairs – and then I saw you. I thought you must be having a heart attack or something.”

Edward shook his head and then regretted it. “No, no. It wasn’t that. Just – my own fault.”

“You really do look awful,” she said again, much as she had two years ago. He still managed to feel irritation over it. She frowned then. “And, Edward – your _suit_ – why have you got your coat on – and haven’t you shaved? I thought you never forgot to do things like that! If the world was ending, you’d still be turning yourself out as neatly pressed as possible.”

He caught hold of her arm, but he was unsure what to say, or if he wanted her to continue or stop this train of thought.

“And you looked exactly as usual just now,” she said, and their eyes met. “Not like this.”

Edward held her gaze. “Julia. Do you remember – the evening before I resigned – we went out for a walk and a meal together –”

She froze. “That’s impossible – you always said it never happened – you weren’t there –”

“Because it was _me_ ,” said Edward. “Me now; not me then, I should say.”

Julia swallowed. “But how could that be? Edward! I never dared speak about it again, once everyone said you’d been at Carlton Place. You see, I knew it _was_ you, there couldn’t be any doubt about that – I could only think it must have been your ghost. I thought something awful was going to happen to you! All this time!”

“Sorry,” he murmured and leant back against the wall again. He put the box down between them. “But something would have done if I hadn’t. To all of us. Julia, Emily is all right, isn’t she?”

She nodded. “Of course. She’s staying at her friend Lucy’s.”

“Thank God. And everyone else?”

Julia sighed. “Well, how do I know? Nothing’s particular has happened to any of your family since the raids, not that I can think. Harding is Prime Minister at the moment – Fields was forced to resign not that long after you. Oh, but Diana resigned, too, I’m afraid.”

“Well, that all sounds like a start,” he said, including the part about Diana, although he couldn’t explain that to Julia. Then he caught Julia’s movement, as if to touch the box, and hastily leant forward, putting out a hand to stop her. “Don’t! Don’t touch it. Once was a risk, but perhaps a justified one – change things again and it’ll all come tumbling down once more.”

Julia touched his face, running her fingers over his stubble, as if to prove to herself that something had truly had been altered. “This is all quite impossible, you know. We can’t tell the doctor you did this to herself by travelling in time. It doesn’t even sound real when I say it. How did you get this thing?”

“A devil or a demon,” said Edward, almost drunk with exhaustion. “Or possibly a magician, persuasion unknown.”

“And what did you change – your resignation? Am I supposed to take your word for it that the alternative was worse?”

He put his hand in hers. “I’m afraid so. Much too bad to tell you when none of it is real any more.” He was shaking, he realised, his throat constricting as tears threatened. He was too badly weakened to deal with any of this, and still suffering from a year of strain that had now never happened. He’d even brought himself to the point of being ready to take his own life, and now he was going to have to live. “But you’ll have to tell me everything – something must have gone wrong somewhere, I’m sure.”

“Well, Mr Hallam is still around. And you’re halfway through a book that I should think is going to be a lot harder to finish now.”

He was too drained to even smile. “I’m sorry. I seem to have displaced the Edward who got up this morning. I’m not sure how this business works, but I don’t think my memories are going to change. Perhaps you’ve got a bad bargain out of it.”

“Darling,” said Julia, squeezing his hand. “You’re _you_ , in all the ways that matter. That much I _do_ know. I couldn’t possibly be mistaken, after all, not on that subject. And why should I complain when now I can tell you that you did promise we could have new curtains, and that it was you who arranged to go to dinner with Diana and forgot and just you’ll have to take my word for it.” 

He mustered a ghost of a smile at that.

“Or are you thinking that I’m the bad bargain?” she said. “Am I not as good as the Julia you left behind this morning? Because I already have enough trouble with Caroline and Marie – I refuse to compete with myself!”

Edward hadn’t even thought of that. She was Julia; he hadn’t even questioned the difference that the two alternative experiences made. He understood what she meant about him, then, immediately. She hadn’t lived through that awful period beside him, and they hadn’t nearly broken apart under the strain, thank God, but she was Julia, and that was all that mattered.

“I’ll get you a cup of tea,” she said. “I’m sorry – I meant to before, but then you started talking about time travel and I forgot.” She looked at him again, as if to prove she wasn’t imagining things. Then she moved forward and hugged him tightly, not quite able to leave him. “I thought you were _dying_ and, oh, Ned, you still look – I don’t know –translucent at the edges and I don’t like it.” She drew back, and then kissed him, before pulling him against her.

Edward let himself bury his head in her shoulder for a moment, before he said, “Tea would be rather a good idea.”

“Yes, of course,” said Julia, drawing back, and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand.

She paused in the doorway, on her way out, and turned back. “How do you know this person wasn’t an angel in disguise, anyway?”

“Now, that _would_ be impossible,” murmured Edward, even though Julia had already left; he could hear her footsteps fading away down the hall as she headed towards the kitchen. “It’s always one sort of devil or another. One merely has to choose between them as best as one can.”

On the floor beside him, the box vanished.


	23. Proposition (PG, Magic AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia has been asked to spy on one of the government magicians, but she has a rather different idea in mind. So does he…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1949; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves. (Magic AU of Edward and Julia’s meeting in Paris.)
> 
> Prompts: Prune 4 (one per cent inspiration and ninety-nine per cent perspiration); Lemon-Lime Sorbet 9 (in your dreams) + Gummy Bunnies – also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo square “asking for help.”

The fairy lights and music inside seemed to belong to another world, unconnected to the still-battered and bleak one outside. Julia had also left her mundane self behind in this borrowed dress, a long grey silk frock with a silver embroidered bodice. It put her in mind of her mother, who, in Julia’s memory, was forever going to dances, looking like a fairy princess.

Of course, formal receptions and even dances were frequently tedious, as Julia knew well, having often attended as one of the catering staff at the American Embassy in Paris. Today, though, she was a guest at the British Embassy, here with Edward Iveson, one of the court magicians who’d accompanied the Foreign Secretary to the conference. She glanced up at him, even as he turned back to her from a conversation with a small, nondescript man whose name she hadn’t caught.

“I’m sorry,” Mr Iveson said, and seemed to interpret her look as a request, leading her onto the dance floor as the musicians began to play a waltz. 

Julia caught her breath, wanting to let the illusion take over, but she must remember that it was all very unreal indeed. She was only here because she had been asked to keep an eye on Mr Iveson by the Common Front organisation, who hoped she could coax some secrets about the ongoing negotiations out of him. Why he had seemed to go out of the way to encourage her was a more complicated question. She felt sure he _had_ guessed what she was, but he had asked no questions and made no accusations, merely asking her first to the theatre and now to this ball. Perhaps he was intending to give her false information to pass on, but he didn’t seem to have talked much about anything that wasn’t personal. 

“Is something wrong?” he asked, shifting his hand on her waist.

Julia nearly laughed. Where to begin? The whole situation, following the war, or the loss of her family – though, that, he knew already – or the phial she had in her handbag or her puzzlement as to his intentions? 

“Miss Graves?” he said, evidently troubled by her silence.

She raised her head and knew that it was time to come to a decision: two years of the Common Front, three encounters with Mr Iveson, one phial that was making her uncomfortable, and no time left to ponder her options.

“May we talk?” she said breathlessly. “Alone, I mean.”

Mr Iveson merely nodded and without creating any fuss or colliding with other dancers, guided her back across to Elaine and Crispin Morley, where she reclaimed her bag while Mr Iveson picked up two glasses of champagne, passing one to Julia.

She took the champagne, raising the glass to her lips, but she watched Mr Iveson as he murmured a vague excuse to Elaine – someone else was already busy talking to Mr Morley – and ushered her away from the crowds, into a long hallway behind the ballroom and on, into an empty office. It couldn’t have belonged to anyone in particular, even in office hours, as there was nothing inside it but a bare desk and chairs, plus a small, long table with two more wooden chairs on either side of it.

“What is it?” Mr Iveson asked. He showed no surprise or annoyance at her request, merely awaiting her explanation.

Julia perched on the table, placing the delicate, borrowed silver bag beside her and pausing for a moment, before finally taking the plunge. “Do you know who I am?” she said. “What I’m doing?”

She thought he wasn’t going to answer. He shifted his gaze, now looking slightly to one side of her and put a hand in his jacket pocket. Eventually, he said, “Well, obviously I know you’re Julia Graves.” He met her gaze again and she had to look down: Berlin and her brother’s death lay between them and could never entirely be forgotten.

“And, yes,” he added. “I believe you must be hoping for information from me – the Common Front, I suppose. Hoping the Magical Arms Agreement will eventually be signed.” He leant against the wall. “I knew that you’d joined them in Berlin. My previous job was rather in that line, you know. I’m sorry.”

Julia bit her lip. She’d guessed that he had at least suspected the truth, but she had not dreamed he’d known for that long. “Then why did you encourage me? Keeping your enemies close, is that it?”

“Something like that,” he admitted, with a small quirked, smile. “But also – I meant to go back and see if you needed help in Berlin, but I was too late. I _am_ sorry, Julia, and if I can help now, I will – I wasn’t lying when I told you that our families used to be friends.”

Julia still couldn’t look up. She put her hand into the bag and her fingers closed around the phial.

“If I thought you were an enemy,” he said, moving forwards, “I would never have said so much.”

Julia pulled out the phial and held it out to him. “You’re a magician, aren’t you? Can you tell me what this is?”

“Well, not just by looking,” said Edward, although he examined it carefully, and held it up to the light. “Why?”

She shrugged. “Someone gave it to me to use, and I wondered.”

“I see,” he said, with one brief glance across at her, before he became brisk and business-like and started rifling in the desk drawers for blotting paper, pulling out two sheets and laying them flat on the desk’s surface. “Not that this is going to be the most reliable test, but – I’ll try. Unless you think it might be especially lethal?”

Julia shook her head. “Oh, no. I opened it earlier and I’m still here.”

Mr Iveson removed the stopper and let a few drops of the colourless liquid fall onto the blotting paper, before crouching down to be at eye level with it. After a moment of what seemed to Julia to be pointless examination from that position, he straightened up again and held his hand over it, frowning in concentration. As the first real act of magic she’d seen performed in front of her, it was definitely an anti-climax. 

Mr Iveson drew himself up, screwing up the paper at the same time and throwing it across into the bin. “You’d want a proper test done to confirm it, but I can’t mistake _that_. I’ve come across something very similar before – worse luck.”

“In your previous line of work?” said Julia, raising an eyebrow. “Military Intelligence, you mean?” She hadn’t realised that until he’d as good as confessed it just now, but it made a surprising amount of sense.

He gave another nod.

“So, I’m only an amateur, I suppose. No wonder you knew.”

“I’m not in the service any more,” he pointed out. “Old habits die hard, of course. And, yes, yes, you are. That’s part of what worries me. I don’t think your heart has ever been in it, and you’re too careless. That’s the sort of thing that will get you killed.”

Julia wasn’t entirely sure how she should react to his concern, so she pushed that aside. “So, this drug – what is it, what does it do?”

“Like most things, that depends on the context in which you use it,” said Mr Iveson.

Julia slipped off the table, impatient with his caution. “Say I was supposed to slip somebody a few drops of it in their champagne?” She raised her glass as she spoke, and held his gaze in challenge.

“Yes, sorry,” he murmured. “It’s only – it’s a combination of two substances, but I can’t tell you for certain what both are, because one is an inhibitor. The main could be poison, could be a sleeping potion, or something to make a person more docile – but you’d have to get it tested to be sure. For magic-users, you often need an inhibitor to make it effective or less detectable. The trouble is, inhibitors can have vicious side-effects, especially for technical magicians, rather than the practical or natural sort.”

Julia closed her eyes momentarily, suddenly unsteady. She had clung to the Common Front since the loss of Rudy – the last other surviving member of her close family – but Mr Iveson was right about her heart not being in their cause. She did agree with many of their aims, but certainly not all of their methods, and that was before one faction within the organisation had started getting worrying militant of late. If someone had given her something that could have injured or even killed Mr Iveson – who, as a member of the civil service, was almost certain to be a technical magician rather than a practical one, she owed them nothing. She was finally set free from the obligation she’d felt. She raised her head again, suddenly able to open up her mind to more possibilities again – maybe even to imagine a better future.

“When you say somebody,” said Mr Iveson, keeping his tone conversational, but watching her closely, “I take it that you mean me?”

Julia nodded, wondering how he would react to that revelation.

“Then thank you,” he said soberly, handing the phial back over. “Please don’t. And please don’t ever give it to anyone else. I’ve had a run in with this kind of thing before. I probably wouldn’t survive a second time.”

Someone had wanted, not information, but also to be rid of one more magician. Julia didn’t run to administering unknown drugs to anybody without some very good reason, but she felt both sick and angry at the idea of what they’d wanted her to do to Mr Iveson. 

“I hate it,” she said, her voice low but nearly choking over the intensity of her emotion, surprising herself more than him. “I hate it, I hate them – I _don’t_ want anything more to do with any of it! You’re right, you know. In some ways I don’t care. I’m not an idealist, or a terrorist. I did it for Rudy, because he’d been with them, and I didn’t know where else to go or what to do – but that was stupid.”

Mr Iveson made an awkward start forward, putting out his hand to her and then drawing it back. “I am sorry. As I said, I only wish I’d tried to help that day. I didn’t want to presume – to intrude on your grief.” 

“I don’t suppose they’ll let me go, though, will they?” she said, lowering her voice further as she began to take in the ramifications of her position.

He sat down on the edge of the desk, and gave her an unexpected smile. “They might be unwilling, but I think I have an idea – it’s a little outrageous, but perhaps – in the circumstances – it might prove beneficial to everyone all round. Aside from, er, your people, that is.”

“I don’t think I’d make much of a double agent,” said Julia. “I’m not all that much of a single one. I’m not a politician, either – and your thing with the blotting paper was the first bit of magic I’ve seen. It wasn’t very impressive, by the way. _Did_ you actually do anything at all?”

Mr Iveson laughed and reached out for the remaining spare sheet of blotting paper, catching it up in his hand and letting it fall into silver dust. “Did you expect glitter?” he murmured, with an amused glint in his eye. “Sparks, perhaps? I assure you, Miss Graves – Julia – we technical magicians are a dull lot. Not like natural magicians.”

Julia couldn’t help laughing in return. “I’m not sure I believe you, Mr Iveson!”

“Please – Edward,” he said. “And it’s quite true. We busy ourselves in offices and libraries.”

“They never taught us anything useful about magic at school,” she said. “The Common Front have a point, you know. It _is_ a dangerous omission, and other countries are much better at training people. Well, some of them are, at least.”

Mr Iveson – Edward – gave another of his brief nods. “I couldn’t agree more, but that’s something I plan to work on from within the government, not by attacking people.”

“Easier said than done, though, I think,” said Julia, raising an eyebrow. “Still, what is it you’ve got in mind? I distracted you, didn’t I? I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

Edward smiled. “Oh, it all amounts to the same thing I’d say – it’s this lamentable lack of understanding about magic, even the difference between natural and technical magicians that leaves me in something of a predicament and, as I said, I think we could help each other out of our respective difficulties.”

“Goodness,” said Julia. “Whatever your idea is, it must be more than a little outrageous or you’d have got to the point by now.”

He frowned. “I am trying. The thing is, there’s still an archaic law in effect that requires a court magician to marry. To produce more magicians was the original idea, although it’s not a guarantee for natural magicians and has very little to say to technical magicians –”

“And they’re going to force you down the aisle or sack you?” she said, raising an eyebrow. “I find that very hard to believe!”

“Yes, well, in normal times, neither, I should imagine, but in times of crisis enforcing rules like that is a matter of being seen to do something. So, I might be at least politely asked to consider it.”

“How dreadful. Clearly you need to take drastic action to avoid such a possibility!”

Edward laughed, holding a hand up to acknowledge a hit. “Yes, yes, I know. But while I don’t think anyone will dismiss me out of hand, it might well affect my chances of advancement, and I’m not entirely lacking in ambition.”

“It’s a novel excuse,” said Julia. “I’ll grant you that much. Is this – is this a proposal? Please, Mr Iveson – Edward – this isn’t the time for jokes.”

He stood, holding out a hand to her, and taking hers when she responded. “I’m not. It is ridiculous, I know. But it would solve my current difficulty – and you could tell your people that I’ve fallen for you – that I’ve made this wild proposal and that you are sure you can put it to good use – maybe even turn me. And we make a marriage – of convenience, of course – and you may be gradually, unnoticeably extracted from their orbit with no cause for alarm. You do see?”

“I do, but ridiculous isn’t the word!” Julia said. “You can’t possibly mean it. Are you drunk?”

Edward shook his head. “No. And of course I don’t mean to try and bully you into the scheme – I shall arrange for you to visit my aunt and try and work out a deal for you with SIS. The Common Front aren’t supposed to be dangerous, but –” He shrugged. “My way covers all the points.”

“Aside from us being trapped in a marriage of convenience,” said Julia. “You can’t possibly want a second divorce, can you?”

“I’d survive it, however,” he said. “Given some of our other options, this one has that advantage for both of us.” He hesitated and then added, “Of course, I would ask you to wait a little while before divorcing me. My first marriage ended rather too quickly and if my second did the same, I’d wind up looking like Bluebeard or something.”

Julia nodded, although she had to bite back a smile at the improbable idea of Edward Iveson as Bluebeard. Elaine Morley had told her about Edward’s disastrous first marriage when she’d gone to see her about borrowing a dress, however, and she could easily imagine it must be a sensitive subject. “Edward,” she said, perching herself on the desk, and waiting till he looked at her to continue. “I do see the reasons as to why I should consider your offer, but I don’t understand what it is you want out of the arrangement?”

She couldn’t help thinking that he must want her. It was an odd way to go about it, but even after one meeting in Berlin and three in Paris, that was no longer very surprising. Edward was odd, at least a little. She liked him, though. She wished she hadn’t been so very alone for so long: she’d know just how to refuse him, then. As it was, she was tempted, ridiculous as the prospect was. She liked the idea of accepting his offer of a pretend marriage and then winning him over – if she did still like him on further acquaintance.

“Yes,” he said, and looked away again. “I know. It merely seems to me to answer all the problems – but I’ll get in touch with my aunt and talk to Mr Morley. I said it was an outrageous suggestion.”

Julia shook her head. “No,” she said. “Or, I mean, let me think about it. It was so unexpected, but – I’d make rather a good hostess. I can be the perfect wife and support your career until we part. But, look, what do you _do_? I don’t entirely understand the difference between your sort of magician and the other.” 

“We’re trained to be attuned to the magic in everything around us,” he said. “And there is a certain amount in pretty much everything so then it’s a matter of identifying it, and of using it – rather like a miner seeking out a rich ore. Only with a lot more paperwork – but that’s more complex. Natural magicians are people with a greater than usual amount of innate magic in themselves. So we both use magic, but we come at it from opposite directions.”

Julia bit her lip, her question having been not entirely honest. She hadn’t been taught much about magic, but she had gathered a vague idea as to the difference between magicians. But listening to Edward in professional mode was something she found she was enjoying, and it also gave her a chance to think, and to watch him. However, one thing he said caught her attention. She slid off the desk, moving nearer to him. “So, you could use whatever magic is in me? I would have some?”

“Everyone does,” he said. “But it’s not something one just _does_ , you know.”

“It might hurt?”

“Of course not, but it’s not the most appropriate behaviour.”

Julia laughed. “And making proposals out of the blue is? Go on, please. Try. Show me some magic close up. I’ve spent the last eighteen months or so among people who disapprove and the only court magicians I ran into before that – in my war work, you understand – had no time to spare on lesser mortals like me.”

“We’ll need contact,” he said, and held out his hand to her. She took it, and looked up at him, waiting, but he was gazing back so intently and yet almost looking through her, and she found it better to close her eyes. She felt light, butterfly touches against her temples and then her cheek, but when she opened her eyes, he hadn’t moved. She found herself debating again, idly, whether his eyes were blue or grey while he put his other hand to her arm, steadying her as she started, unknowing, to sway. She felt the same sort of light, fluttering sensation again, only this time inside her mind. It was strangely both dizzying and calming.

Her defences down, there was a moment afterwards when their minds seemed to meet. She didn’t know what he might or might not have seen, but she could sense strongly his wish to kiss her – so much so, she felt surprised when he didn’t and merely stepped back, leaving her alone again.

“Julia?” he said, keeping his hand on her arm in concern and then when she shook herself, he smiled, as if unaware of having betrayed his feelings, holding out a flower to her. 

It had a black stem, soft grey petals and a silvery centre. She recognised the various parts of her dress and took it with a small cry of pleasure at the novelty.

“I used the fabric as well,” he said. “I didn’t want to be too intrusive. Will that satisfy you?”

Julia turned the flower around in her hands, feeling breathless. _No_ , she thought, it was only the beginning. She couldn’t say that to him, however. “How – how charming. Thank you. Could I learn to do that?”

“I doubt it.”

She raised her head sharply, her magic-induced moment of pleasure entirely broken. “Oh? And why not? If you mean to say that it’s because I’m a female –”

“No,” said Edward. “Of course not. That’s merely a Victorian fallacy, you know. Ideally, a person would want training earlier, but a trick like that – yes, of course anyone could work their way up to it if they were determined.”

“Except me?” Julia clenched her fingers around the unnatural flower. “Well, I must say I don’t think that’s very flattering.”

He shook his head, moving forward. “Except any natural magician – it takes a great deal more work to override one’s own magic to see someone else’s. And it would be a considerable waste of effort, when one could be working with that innate magic instead.”

For the second time that evening, Julia found herself gaping in disbelief, sure he must be joking. “Me? But – I would have known! Somebody would have said.”

“You told me yourself no one at your school taught magic,” he said. “And, yes, it is a problem. Thousands of natural magicians go unnoticed until it manifests in some ways – often very damaging for the unfortunate magician or the people around them. Much better to do something about it before it comes to that.”

Julia glanced at the flower again. So, perhaps he hadn’t realised how much she’d seen when they’d touched in that way – only that she’d done something magical herself? She gave a smile, liking the idea. “Is this just another means of persuading me to marry you? No doubt, you’d see about my training if I do?”

“It’s another reason to get you well away from the Common Front,” he said. “If they’ve got an anti-magical extremist in their midst, you don’t want to be anywhere near them when your power becomes apparent. And it would at some point.”

“And you could you teach me?”

“The basics, yes – and arrange for the rest. But I’d do that anyway, even if you want me to speak to my aunt instead. But,” he said, giving her a sudden grin, “I do hope you _will_ consider my offer – I think this marriage could prove very interesting.”

Julia slipped her hand into his again. “Very,” she murmured and stretched up to kiss him, briefly. “I shall certainly consider it, I promise.”


	24. Don't Ask, Don't Get (PG, AU 1943: Edward Iveson, Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia and Edward meet at a dinner party instead of a mortuary. It’s not necessarily better that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summer 1943; Edward Iveson, Julia Graves. (In another piece, Julia wanted an AU where she and Edward met sooner, so here it is. I don’t think this was what she had in mind, though.)
> 
> Prompts: Prune #5 (don’t get your hopes up)
> 
> Notes/warnings: WWII, spies etc.

The main reason Julia had accepted Lord Howe’s invitation was because she hoped it was the sort of place where she might be able to find someone to ask for news of her family. They were in Germany, while she was here in London, so it wasn’t the easiest question to ask people, but she wanted to try. The other reason, of course, was that she suspected Lord Howe was exactly the sort of person who would do all he could not to be inconvenienced by rationing and she had rather more hopes of a good meal – a prospect not to be taken lightly these days.

She’d patiently sat through a formal dinner, which wasn’t the sort of thing she was used to any more, and put up with the long-winded old gentleman sitting next to her, and then, after dinner, caught Lady Howe and confessed her purpose, although she neglected to say exactly where it was her family were. Lady Howe pointed out one or two people who she said were in the government, or overseas correspondents for her husband’s paper, and then added that she could try Edward Iveson, who did something at the Foreign Office. “Or he used to,” she’d said, waving a hand vaguely. “I’m not sure where he is now, but he might know who you should ask.”

Julia looked over in the direction Lady Howe had indicated, and saw a tall, thin young man with a slightly apologetic stance who was talking to her dinner partner, though she caught him looking to one side, so it didn’t seem that he found the older man any more enthralling than she had.

“I’ll introduce you,” said Lady Howe. “Oh, dear, Uncle Albert has him in his clutches. I’m sure he’ll be glad to be excused. I do feel bad about inflicting him on people, but my husband doesn’t like to forget him, and what can one do?”

Julia raised her eyebrows, but followed Lady Howe obediently, and was introduced to Mr Iveson, who was disconcertingly taller than she had quite realised. She shook his hand and waited until Lady Howe had tactfully moved away, dragging the apparently notorious Uncle Albert in her wake.

“Lady Howe said you had a question,” said Mr Iveson. “I’m curious; you’d better enlighten me.”

Julia gave a nervous smile and moved nearer. “Well, it’s about my family,” she said, and explained as best as she could.

“You couldn’t really expect much news,” he said, barely hiding his impatience, angling away from her as if ready to find someone more rational to talk to. “You’re hardly the only one in this sort of situation and you’ve no reason to suppose anything is wrong.”

Julia looked down, unsure what to say. She hadn’t expected anyone to agree, not really, but she also hadn’t expected such a blunt dismissal, and it stung.

“Or do you think that your case is more urgent?” he asked, his tone light, but though he didn’t raise his voice she recognised the underlying anger in it, and someone beside her glanced at them both with some curiosity. “Of vital importance to the nation, that some of our officers in the field should risk their lives to try and find out? Was that what you were asking?”

Julia let herself be angry; otherwise she might have had to blink back tears at his response. She held up her head, keeping her dignity. “I know I probably shouldn’t ask,” she said, “but they’re my family. I have to try.” Then she glanced up at him again and added, “I was going to say that I’m sure you would do the same if it were your family, but perhaps you wouldn’t.”

She turned away, but not before she saw the expression on his face shift from annoyance to dismay. She talked rather desperately to another stranger, this time an elegant woman who was somewhat surprised by her hasty self-introduction but obliged her by talking about the weather and how dreadful the war was generally. Julia was dying to leave, but she didn’t want Mr Iveson to know he’d had the satisfaction of driving her away from the party, so she kept up the small talk for a few minutes before making her escape.

“Horrible man!” she said, as she departed down the stairs, pulling on her coat as a maid opened the door for her. She emerged out into the street with a sigh of relief, and stopped to get her breath back, still feeling unreasonably upset by the encounter. It might be a silly question, she thought, growing angry again, and she knew that really, but what else could she do? He could simply have said no; she would have expected nothing more. To lecture her in front of everyone and talk as if she was being terribly unpatriotic was unfair and unkind.

She strode on down the street, facing the breeze gratefully, as if it could cool her anger.

“Miss Graves!”

She stopped in disbelief, and then swung round to see Mr Iveson hurrying along the pavement. As he reached her, he stopped. “Miss Graves, will you wait a minute?”

“Is this an apology?” she said. “Because I don’t think I care.”

Mr Iveson gave a small grimace in acknowledgement of her point. “Nevertheless, I’m sorry. That was unforgivable of me. It’s not an excuse, of course, but I was angry over something else – nothing to do with you.”

“I still don’t think that’s any way to behave at a dinner party,” she said. “It’s as well I didn’t speak to you before we sat down, or I’d have quite lost my appetite.”

He fell into step beside her as she started walking again. She wished he’d go.

“I realised who you must be afterwards,” he said, more quietly. “I’m sorry. I knew your mother a little – Hanne Graves, yes?”

“Oh, does it make a difference if it’s somebody _you_ know instead of only my family?” she shot back. “If I’d known, I’d have said so in the first place.”

Mr Iveson shook his head. “It doesn’t change the outcome, no; of course not. But I am sorry. I’d be sorry anyway, but Mrs Graves was always kind to me and my cousins when we saw her. But what I said was true, you know, – no news isn’t necessarily bad news, especially with regards to your mother.”

“Everybody knows my mother,” said Julia, with a sigh, feeling as if she might as well be two hundred and ten instead of twenty-one. “Everyone’s sorry. Except of course for all the people who blame her for going, or seem to think I shouldn’t care because why should anybody have any feelings for a German, even if she does happen to be my mother?”

Mr Iveson looked away, and then back at her. “Of course. I’m sorry. It is unfair, isn’t it? When everyone else starts worrying about people and you aren’t allowed to talk about it in the same way.”

Given how dismissive he’d been before, she almost jumped at his observation. It was true, but no one else had bothered to acknowledge it before, not to her. She slowed to a halt and looked at him. “Yes,” she said, simply. “It does feel like that. I suppose most people would be sympathetic – but there are enough who wouldn’t, so I simply don’t mention it.”

“Look, I didn’t actually run after you to apologise,” he said. “I’m going to do the one thing I can do for you and promise that in the unlikely event I ever do hear news about any of your family, I will inform you immediately. Do you have an address where I can reach you?”

Julia nodded, and then fumbled about in her bag for a pen and paper to write down her work address for him. She fished out a pencil and he, seeing her endeavours, produced half an old envelope from his pocket and passed it over.

“In return,” he said, as she tried with difficulty to jot down the address against the nearest wall, “you must promise me something.”

Julia finished writing and looked up, not liking the sound of that.

“Nothing much,” he said. “It’s just that while I sympathise with your concern, nobody can do more for you than that, so please don’t ask that question of anybody else, do you understand?”

She held out the tattered envelope. “I don’t do it all the time, you know. I’d just thought that somebody there might be able to help. It was that sort of evening. Anyway, I don’t see what it has to do with you.”

“Please,” he said, facing her. “Don’t you see how unwise it is? You could get yourself into trouble.”

Julia shrugged. “Well, that’s hardly your business.”

“No,” he said, with a slight smile, taking the envelope from her and pocketing it. “Of course it isn’t. However, as I said, I can’t do a thing to help Hanne, but I can help her daughter. Just promise me you won’t ask that sort of question again, not of a stranger, not like that.”

Julia shook her head. If she ever did find someone who could help her, she wasn’t going to be hampered by swearing something so foolish to someone who’d lectured her in public.

“Miss Graves,” he said. “Honestly, you don’t want the authorities looking at you with suspicion.”

She said, “Oh, I went up before a tribunal, but they dismissed me pretty quickly. You needn’t worry about me getting interned, if that was what you meant.”

“Very well,” said Edward. “Let’s try again: at least promise me that you won’t ask that question lightly, or of someone you don’t know or don’t trust.”

Julia wanted to be rid of him. “Well, yes, I suppose I can do that. As long as you remember your half of the bargain.”

“The slightest whisper and you’ll hear from me,” he said. “There won’t be, though. It wouldn’t be good news if there was.”

There wasn’t really much she could say to that gloomy pronouncement, Julia thought, so she stuffed her hands in her pockets and walked on, relieved that he didn’t try to follow her this time.

 

Edward stopped around the corner, away from her, and pulled out the envelope. Then he fished about in his other pockets for a book of matches and burnt the envelope over the gutter, watching the flakes of ash and paper fall and float away. “Just to be on the safe side,” he said to himself. He hoped Miss Graves would keep that promise. If nothing else, he thought wryly, his burst of bad temper would surely cause her to think twice before she asked that same question of anyone else. 

The danger wasn’t so much in her risking internment – although Edward knew only too well that it wasn’t out of the question whatever they’d decided the first time, if she started attracting attention – but he’d spent the past few years helping to find useful people in the complex game of counter-intelligence. Perhaps it wasn’t patriotic of him, but he had seen enough of the damage done in the process to want to avoid someone else seeing Hanne Graves’s daughter as a potential asset. And they might well, he thought. He certainly could.

He wiped the last trace of ash from his fingers with his handkerchief and walked away.


	25. Second Time, Worse Than the First (T, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Rudy Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward’s assignment is proving to be more awkward than he expected (although Julia doesn’t think that’s a good enough excuse for having him in her flat uninvited).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jan/Feb 1946; Edward Iveson, Julia Graves, Rudy Graves. (Continuation of the AU where Julia and Edward met in London, and not over her brother’s dead body, only a few years after _Don't Ask, Don't Get_. It still doesn’t go well, but at least history isn’t AU this time). [1/4]
> 
> Prompts: Prune #1 (a friend is someone who has the same enemies); White Chocolate #7 (embarrassment) + Chopped Nuts + Gummy Bunnies (also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo square “drowning”)
> 
> Notes/warnings: spies, alcohol.

Edward Iveson moved through the dingy bar still wearing his coat, his hat in his hand, and eyeing his surroundings with distaste as he searched for his quarry. He spotted her sitting at a table with another man beside her, a stranger to him, and that fact made waste no more time in reaching her. 

“Excuse me,” he said to the man. “My seat, if you don’t mind.”

The man looked up at him slowly, then shrugged and left, enabling Edward to sit down beside the young woman. And that, he thought, wasn’t even the difficult part. He had some unwelcome things to explain to her and he was already unsure how she’d react when she saw him – if she’d remember him. He coughed and put his hat on the table. “Miss Graves,” he tried. “Miss Graves!”

She’d been leaning her head on her hands, and now she turned towards him slowly, losing her balance in the process, and looked at him.

“Good God,” he said in surprise, his heart instantly sinking further at the realisation he couldn’t avoid. “Miss Graves, are you _drunk_?”

She continued to stare for a while before putting her hands to her mouth as she laughed helplessly at him for what seemed to him to be at least ten minutes. Edward closed his eyes temporarily, embarrassed at how ridiculous he must have sounded – far too prissy and naïve for a place like this.

He rubbed his forehead, feeling tired. He had been worrying about explaining to her sober; he could hardly make the attempt if she was drunk. What had possessed her? Even with what little she knew as yet, it should hardly have seemed like a sensible thing to do in the circumstances. He leant forward, putting his hand to her arm cautiously. “Miss Graves, will you listen to me? I need to tell you something important.”

Miss Graves looked up again and frowned at him. “I _know_ you,” she said eventually.

“Yes,” he said, grateful for any sort of cue. “Yes, you do. Now, Julia, please – put on your coat and come with me. I’ll tell you where your brother is.”

To his relief, she didn’t object. She managed to stand, and Edward put his arm around her, only lightly, to guide her across to the door. The room wasn’t large and he didn’t want her falling over anything on the way out, or suddenly taking against him and trying to run away. 

He got her out without incident and they emerged into the dark and drizzle, Edward ushering Miss Graves further along, eager to be well away from the nightclub. He doubted that anyone else had been waiting there to pounce on either her or her brother, other than him, but it was always better to be safe rather than sorry.

Once they had reached the next street, he turned to her. “How do you feel?” he asked, hoping, if rather optimistically, that the night air might have cleared her head. He cautiously released her.

She looked at him hard, trying to make him come into focus. “Who are you? I know you, but I don’t – oops,” she finished, catching awkwardly at his coat and he steadied her again, unable to help a sidelong glance to check if anyone was watching. 

“I’m Edward Iveson,” he said. “Now, look, Miss Graves –” He had to stop again, since she only tugged away from him and turned around to throw up against the wall.

Edward looked around again, embarrassed still further by the whole situation. “Oh, God,” he said under his breath. If she’d wanted to pay him out for their previous meeting, she was certainly going the right way about it. 

 

There was clearly no way he could have the conversation he needed to have with her, and until he had, he couldn’t leave her alone. He could have tried to get her to a safe house, but he wasn’t at all sure he could get her to understand that, either, and it would in those circumstances amount to kidnapping, which was not something Edward wanted to add to his CV at this late stage in his time with MI5.

He got her into a cab, and instructed the driver to take them to her flat, and then turned his attention back to her.

“My brother,” she said, as the cab set off with a jolt; the driver seemingly having decided to tackle London’s roads at night as an obstacle course to be navigated at top speed. Edward only hoped it didn’t set her off feeling sick again. 

“He wasn’t there. You said – you _did_ say –?” She stopped and looked at him.

Edward nodded. “Yes. Look, he’s all right, I promise. He’s with us and you’ll see him again soon. We’re just trying to make sure he stays all right. You too, if it comes to it.”

She said nothing then and he couldn’t really see her reaction with only the intermittent lamplight to illuminate the cab. He had a feeling, though, that she was crying for a moment. After that, she passed out on him, and he had to hang onto her to make sure she didn’t get thrown about the cab every time the driver turned a corner.

Matters didn’t particularly once they reached her home – a Victorian building, now divided up into flats. He had to drag Miss Graves out of the cab and pay the driver, while trying not to allow himself to wonder what the man thought about the pair of them. 

“Come on,” said Edward to Miss Graves, having managed to rouse her somewhat now that they were out in the street. “Let’s get you inside.”

She murmured something he couldn’t quite catch, but he thought it might have been that she’d had enough, and then she slid down and sat on the doorstep.

Edward bit back exasperation, and then borrowed her bag to hunt for the key. And these places, he thought, often had the landlord or lady living in the ground floor flat and renting out the rest. If so, and they made this sort of entrance, Miss Graves would probably get politely asked to leave sometime soon.

“Hey,” said Miss Graves, stirring again, “give that back.” She tried to hit him, but thoroughly ineffectually, only over-balancing herself.

Edward turned. “All I want is the key –” He looked at her again, and then sighed, and set about picking the lock and hoped a constable wouldn’t come walking by. Not that he didn’t have his card, but it wouldn’t look good. To his relief, he got it open, and then turned back to haul Miss Graves up and in through the front door, more impatient than gentle by this time. 

“You’re still here,” she said suddenly, sitting where he’d dumped her at the bottom of the stairs while he shut the door behind them.

Edward moved over to her. “Yes, I am,” he said, helping her up again, and keeping his voice to a whisper. “Believe me, I don’t want to be. Now, come on. Which is your flat?”

“I know the way,” she said, suddenly stubborn, and trying to stand alone. “You can go.”

Edward sighed. “Not yet, I can’t. Now, it’s upstairs, yes?”

~o~

Julia awoke slowly. The sun was already coming through the crack in the curtains, and she wondered unwillingly, as she opened her eyes, what the time must be. That slight movement seemed to bring all the consequences of last night to bear on her at the same moment: her head hurt and she felt thoroughly awful. She pressed her face back into the pillow and hoped everything would go away.

Memories of the previous night crept back slowly. Oh, God, she thought. Rudy! She’d been waiting for him and he’d never come. The note had been nothing but a cruel joke. Forget however rotten she felt this morning; she simply didn’t want to get up and go on any more, regardless. She didn’t know why somebody would do that, but it must be the end, she thought: Rudy must be dead, after all.

But then, she wondered, what had happened after that? She had a feeling someone else had turned up to meet her after all – she thought they’d helped her back here, but it was far too unclear. She cursed herself wearily. Trying to drown her sorrows must have seemed reasonable last night, when she could tell herself there wouldn’t be another morning, but now there was, she couldn’t help feeling it had been a terrible plan.

But surely, she told herself, the person who’d brought her back must have been Rudy after all. That didn’t exactly fit with the vague idea in her head, but who else could it have been? There was no other rational explanation. Gingerly, she sat up, and risked opening her eyes. “Rudy?” she tried, and winced at the sound of her own voice.

“Er, no,” said someone else from the doorway. “Now, don’t panic, Miss Graves, but –”

Julia wasn’t sure what current medical thought was on terror for curing a hangover, but even if it didn’t make her head stop throbbing, she felt abruptly more alert in a most unwelcome way. She gave a slight gasp and disappeared under the covers and closed her eyes, her heart thudding hard into the mattress. It was like nightmares she’d had about someone being in the room, except it was true. It dawned on her that her reaction wasn’t exactly rational: hiding under the bedclothes wasn’t going to make the stranger go away. Unless, she thought with not very much hope, she was hallucinating?

“Miss Graves –” he said again, and there was no doubt that he was definitely real. The thought occurred to her then that she had little memory of last night and she’d been more drunk than she had ever been in her life before – in fact, she wasn’t sure she’d ever really been properly drunk before – and the most obvious explanation was that she’d invited him back here herself. 

After a moment of wondering whether or not it was actually possible to die of embarrassment, she thought further and realised that she was more fully dressed than usual for lying in bed, rather than the reverse. She still had on her blouse, skirt, stockings and underwear. That didn’t mean she hadn’t brought the stranger back, but it did at least suggest that nothing much could have happened. Julia cautiously remerged from under the covers and tried to focus on the man, but he remained obstinately blurry from this distance. He hadn’t moved past the doorway yet and he also hadn’t tried to kill her while she was stupidly cowering under the covers, so she took that as encouragement and managed to swallow back some her initial panic. 

“I’m sorry if I scared you,” he said. “I was hoping you were awake. I made some coffee – you should probably have some.”

Julia decided that she was at so many disadvantages in this situation that she didn’t know where to start, but she could at least remedy one of them. “All right,” she said. “But go _away_. I’ll come out there.” 

 

Julia emerged from her bedroom, not feeling much better, but having straightened her clothes and brushed her hair and managing to be upright and not horizontal at least. She crossed to the table, and he pushed a cup of coffee across at her. She eyed it suspiciously for a moment and then thought that that was a belated precaution, considering, and took it, curling her hands around the cup.

She lifted her head, taking a deep breath and ignoring the embarrassment she felt. “I don’t know what I said or did last night – but, really, you had better leave now!”

“I’d be happy to,” he said. At close quarters, he wasn’t especially threatening in appearance – apart from being a strange man in her flat, which was a special category of scary in itself. He was thin, wearing a decent if now rumpled suit, and he’d looked fairly tall before in the doorway. At the moment, he seemed more anxious than anything else. “Unfortunately, I can’t until I’ve spoken to you and you’ll need to at least drink that before you’re up to explanations.”

Julia shrugged. He was probably right, but mostly she wanted him to go away and not be there any more.

“I’m Edward Iveson,” he said, and showed her a card. She wasn’t sure what it was other than official. That was reassuring on one level and deeply worrying on another, as if the government had decided to inspect her for something terribly important at the worst possible moment. 

He watched her reaction and gave a slight, wry smile: “Actually, we met once before. You didn’t like me much then, either.”

 

Julia drank the coffee and then headed off to the bathroom, where a quick wash and some fresh clothes did at last make her feel a little more human. The coffee had probably helped, too. When she returned to the main room, she found that Mr Iveson had disappeared into her tiny kitchen. Curious, she followed him in and found him standing there, looking into her cupboards.

“ _Do_ you mind?” she said, shutting the door of the one he was currently contemplating. “Not that there isn’t anything in there that the whole world can’t see if it wants to, but I still think it’s a bit rude to go looking.”

Mr Iveson turned. “I found the bread,” he said, absently, still glancing around, “but I was hoping you might have some eggs.”

“Well, if you spend the night in people’s flats without asking, you can’t expect breakfast to be laid on just the way you like it,” said Julia. “And, no, I don’t at the moment. Only some powdered stuff.”

Mr Iveson stopped to look at her properly. “I wasn’t proposing to eat your food,” he said. “I thought that you ought to have something. You were – ah – fairly unwell last night and I should imagine you’d feel a good deal more yourself if you could manage it.”

“Oh,” said Julia, having an unwelcome memory of that herself and feeling the warmth of humiliation steal into her face. “Well. I shall see if I can manage some porridge and if you get out of my kitchen now and are very quiet while I try, you can have some too.”

Mr Iveson raised an eyebrow. “That sounds worryingly like a threat.”

“Or,” said Julia, not yet in a fit state to defend her cooking skills, “some toast. But absolutely no marmalade. And not just because there isn’t any.”

 

The porridge did help, Julia found. She also reflected, on letting Mr Iveson have a much-begrudged piece of toast, some things were too inbred even to be ignored by annoyance or a hangover. She sighed and said, “There is some honey if you wanted it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Mr Iveson. “You’ve already made it plain enough that I don’t deserve anything of the sort. I wouldn’t dare.”

Julia might even have smiled, but she was steeling herself for the next part. “Well, what is it that you wanted to say? Because I hope you have a very good explanation for this.”

“Your brother’s got himself involved with some interesting people,” said Mr Iveson, becoming serious again. “Not anything too alarming – a pacifist group out in Germany. Now, we’re not especially worried about that in itself, but we believe the group has been infiltrated by some far more dangerous people. We think they’re using him and we needed to have a word with him.”

Julia put down her spoon on the table, curling her fingers around it, finding it hard to think of words. She swallowed and then tried, anyway: “So – you’ve arrested him?”

“Not exactly. He’ll be here to see you soon, I’m sure. I was supposed to pick you up and explain – take you to a safe house if needed, but that didn’t seem to be a good idea yesterday. I don’t think there’s really any threat to you, but,” he said, handing her a piece of card with a number on it, “if anything worries you, if anything strikes you as odd, ring this number. Ask how your Aunty Marigold is.”

Julia took it and then looked up at him. “Aunty Marigold? Not really?”

“Yes,” he said, and gave a slight, embarrassed shrug. “I didn’t choose it.”

She took this in slowly. “But Rudy is alive? I had it in my head that you said that yesterday, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he said, looking suddenly more worried. “I thought I’d said. I’m so sorry, Miss Graves. To the best of my knowledge, he was picked up yesterday – he’ll be talking to my colleagues and hopefully he’ll agree to help us and there will soon be an end to it.”

Julia closed her eyes. “I didn’t quite dare to believe it. I’d had this odd note, you see, from someone, telling me that he’d asked them to send it and that he would meet me at that awful club. I couldn’t see why he wouldn’t just send a telegram himself – I didn’t dare believe it was real – and then he didn’t arrive after all.”

“And so you decided to get drunk?” said Mr Iveson suddenly, as if he couldn’t bite back the urge to criticise her any longer. “If you had any doubts about that note or why you were there – then why on _earth_ would you think that was a good idea? It was hardly sensible anyway, but in that case –”

Julia raised her head sharply; too sharply. She gave a wince. “That was my affair,” she said, but she couldn’t leave it at that; she didn’t owe him an explanation, especially not if he was going to shout at her, but she couldn’t help the urge to defend herself against his disapproval. “It wasn’t like that.” She swallowed, finding it more effort than she’d expected to continue. “My family left here before war broke out. I stayed to finish school, and I didn’t hear any news of them for all that time. I told myself they must be alive, or at least Mother would be, maybe Rudy, too, even if something had happened to Christy. I made myself believe it, rather than think otherwise and give up. But the first thing I heard after the war was over was from a family friend, that Mother had died and they thought Christy had too. I’d been waiting – hoping – all that time. I know far worse things happened everywhere in the war, but it was still – rather a blow. Finally, I got a letter from Rudy – and then nothing since until this note. When it turned out that wasn’t from Rudy, or so I thought, I didn’t care. I didn’t care what happened next, I just wanted not to be there, not to know about any of the rest of it. And I didn’t exactly mean to get so drunk, even then, but – it seems I did somehow –”

“I’m sorry,” said Mr Iveson, halting her. “You’re right – it’s none of my business.”

“Well, exactly,” Julia said. “And it’s hardly as if it’s something I make a habit of – and I think it’s very unfair of you to turn up the one time I do something like that and lecture me, especially if your people – whoever you are – are the ones who stopped Rudy from getting there in the first place.”

Mr Iveson got up, and she put her head down on the table.

“I do remember you now,” she said, her voice muffled. “That party. You weren’t very nice to me then, either.”

“Don’t lose the number,” he said. “And if your brother isn’t being co-operative, try and persuade him – for his own sake, not ours. Don’t forget to telephone that number if you need to.”

She raised her head again. “You want me to spy on him for you, you mean?”

“No,” said Mr Iveson. “Hardly.”

Julia knew there was something else she had to say before he left, much as she didn’t want to. “Mr Iveson,” she said, as he reached the door. “I suppose, despite everything, I should say thank you. For seeing me home, that is. I’m not going to thank you for staying here, or for spying on us.”

“For what it’s worth,” said Mr Iveson, “and I don’t suppose it’s very much, I am sorry about that.”

~o~

Edward walked back into the safe house where they’d been talking to Rudy Graves. “Sir,” he said, catching his superior, Captain Andrews. “How is it going?”

“He doesn’t know anything, he says; he’s just here to see his sister. Not well, I’m afraid. Still, it’s his bloody funeral, not ours. We shouldn’t have too much problem keeping tabs on him now.”

Edward paused, rubbing his forehead. He hadn’t really slept on the previous night. He’d dozed off here and there, but Miss Graves’s tiny sofa was no sensible place to try and spend the night. “May I try?”

“Five minutes,” Andrews said. “We’re letting him go then.”

 

Edward walked into the soulless dining room of the safe house, and sat down opposite Rudy. Having left Julia only half an hour or so before, the resemblance between them was unmistakable, and not merely because Rudy was glaring at him as much as his sister had.

“Mr Graves,” Edward said. “I’m sure you’ve heard everything my colleagues have had to say, so I won’t repeat anything, but maybe before you walk out, you might want to consider your sister.”

“Is that a threat?” said Rudy. “Because there must be someone I can complain to about that.”

Edward leant forward. “No, it isn’t. We’ve both got people giving us orders and none of them care all that much about what happens to you or your sister or me. The people currently using you certainly don’t give a damn. You might be ready to die for your principles, or just because you can’t believe people like us, but you might want to stop and think about her. You’re all she’s got left and I get the impression she’s not going to take it well if anything happens to you. It’s not out of the question, either, that she could get hurt if things go wrong. Would you want that?”

“You seem very concerned about my sister,” said Rudy suddenly, in an accusatory manner that Edward found highly irritating and entirely beside the point.

“What I was hoping, Mr Graves, was that _you_ might be – you damned well ought to be!”

Rudy stared back at him. “Well, I am, but I don’t know anything about any of this. What I’d like is for you people to let me go and see her, that’s all.”

It wouldn’t be all, thought Edward as he left the room. He wished he’d been able to leave the service last week, not next month. He’d been here for long enough; he’d done his job well, and he’d even enjoyed it, but lately he kept coming up against the cost: the way the secrecy cut him off from other people, the lies, but most of all, how easy it was to think of people as pieces in a game, until you lost one and found that no amount of rematches could bring them back.


	26. Double Cross (PG, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Rudy Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia’s having nothing but trouble with men – her brother seems to be in danger and Mr Iveson’s trying to buy her off with sandwiches…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU: Edward/Julia, Rudy Graves, early 1946, continues directly from _Second Time, Worse Than the First_. [2/4]

There was such a long time between Mr Iveson leaving and anything else happening, let alone Rudy turning up, that Julia began to wonder if Mr Iveson had lied to her after all, and what she could do to help Rudy if he had. The next knock at the door, however, proved to be Rudy and after a second or two to take it in, she flung herself at him, not waiting for him to step inside. It had been over eight years since they’d seen each other, and her brother had then been not yet thirteen, but Julia would have known him anywhere.

“Ju,” he said, eventually, trying to pull out of her hold, “let me breathe! I won’t disappear, I promise.”

She gave a shaky laugh and let go, finding herself close to tears and putting up a hand to wipe her eyes.

“Oh, God, don’t cry,” said Rudy, stepping inside and eyeing her with misgivings. “You’re supposed to be pleased to see me.”

She punched his arm lightly. “I am, of course I am! It’s only –”

“I know,” he said, interrupting her with a hug. “I know. Let’s not – let’s just _not_.”

“No,” Julia agreed with a short nod as she moved away. “How about some tea instead?”

Rudy screwed up his face, but said, “All right, then.”

“I can manage coffee if you’d rather,” said Julia. “Rudy?”

He followed her into the kitchen. “No. Tea’s fine. I wouldn’t mind something to eat if you’ve got it. I got pulled in by a bunch of government security people. They didn’t do anything, but they kept me there all night and asked me questions and I’m still starving. I bought some chips on the way here, but it wasn’t really enough, you know.”

“Soup?” offered Julia, pulling out a tin. “I don’t think there _is_ much else, I’m afraid. Rationing, you know, and I work, so I don’t always have time to queue for everything.”

Rudy nodded. “It’s been worse over there.”

“Yes,” said Julia, and knew he was right; that neither of them wanted to talk about the years that had kept them apart. She tipped the contents of the tin into a slightly battered small saucepan and found a match to light the gas ring before turning to look at him. “Now, what is it you’ve got yourself involved in?”

“Nothing!”

Julia gave him a hard look. “Oh, so you were dragged off by these people for no reason at all, and I was pulled out of that horrible place last night by some – some –” She stopped, not being at all sure what Mr Iveson was or how best to describe him. “Anyway, you’d better spill the beans or I won’t let you have any soup. Or houseroom. And if you were really taken away by mistake, then I’d better ring this number that Mr Iveson left me and protest, hadn’t I? Or maybe I should tell them to arrest you properly!”

“Pax, pax,” said Rudy, holding up his hands. “You haven’t changed, have you? It’s nothing, though, I promise. I don’t know why they’re making such a fuss about it. We just want to stop all the fighting. I suppose people like that can’t understand other people having ideals.”

Julia stirred the tomato soup, and gave him a more careful look, trying to see if he was lying. How could she tell after all this time? She bit back a slight sigh, but still felt inclined to believe that he was telling the truth – at least, the truth as he saw it.

“Honestly, Ju,” he said, looking hurt at her hesitation.

She poured half of the soup into a bowl for him and cut a slice of bread, before carrying them both into the living room and setting them down on the table for him. He took his seat, and she sat opposite, watching him. “Are you sure? The man who was here – Mr Iveson – seemed to think that your group had a cuckoo in the nest – someone who wasn’t as well intentioned as the rest of you. He said you were in danger.”

“Oh,” said Rudy, setting to work on the soup. “Well, that’s what he would say, isn’t it? He’s one of them. Even if he’s all right, he’ll have been told that by his people. They want to undermine us, I expect. Think we’re all secretly Communists or something. I don’t see what anyone would even want with us, especially not me.”

Julia would have felt happier if he had been prepared to consider the possibility before dismissing it. But then, she thought, trying to be fair, he’d already had all these other people asking him about it for hours. Still, she had to try. “Rudy –”

“Don’t fuss, Ju,” he said. “I’m just sorry you had to get dragged into it, that’s all.” Then he broke into a grin, a familiar teasing light in his blue eyes that she’d missed all these years. “I think you made a hit with the fellow. There’s a joke if you like.”

Julia frowned at him. “Eat your soup and don’t be ridiculous.”

“No, really,” he said, in between mouthfuls. “You should have heard him: ‘Think of your sister, young man!’ Or pretty much that. I ask you.”

Julia stole half of his slice of bread by way of retaliation. “Well, that sounds perfectly reasonable to me – you _should_ think of me, thank you. I didn’t ask to be involved in any of this.” Then she hesitated, but she couldn’t treat this lightly, even if he could. “Rudy, the last thing I want is for anything to happen to you. Please, please – be careful.”

He didn’t protest this time, merely looking up from his soup, his expression slightly sheepish, and then he stretched out his hand to squeeze hers across the table.

 

A day and a half later, Julia left her workplace in search of a bench on which to spend her lunch hour. It wasn’t very warm, but if the weather was solidly grey and chilly, it was at least dry and she always found it a relief to get outside if she could. She worked in the head office of a stationery company, mostly doing the typing, and the place was too cramped and smoky for her liking. It was also a way to avoid some of her colleagues. She didn’t want people asking questions, she certainly didn’t want idiots flirting with her, and she didn’t care for being disapproved of by Miss Britton, either.

Today, she was even more grateful, since she only had a couple of biscuits and she certainly didn’t want anyone asking why. She supposed she could explain it away if she’d had to, but it was safer not to in the circumstances. Having Rudy around wasn’t easy, especially when too many strange people seemed to be interested in him.

She had just settled on a bench in one of the tiny squares that dotted this area of London, when someone sat on the other end of it. She didn’t look, only broke off a crumb of biscuit and threw it at the pigeons. It didn’t seem worth begrudging them any.

“Miss Graves,” said a now-familiar voice from one side of her, and she turned sharply to see Mr Iveson sitting there. She glared at him, but he gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I wanted to talk to you unofficially, that’s all.”

Julia clenched her fist on her lap. Oh, she thought, and was staying the night in her flat and having breakfast with her official, then? She would have got up and walked away, except for the fact that nothing Rudy had said or done since he’d arrived had quietened her anxiety over what he’d got himself into. “How did you find me?” she asked. “Were you following me?”

“Your place of work was on the file,” he said, with a glance up at the building, the top of which was visible past the trees at the edge of the square. “I merely waited over there for you in the hope you’d emerge during the dinner hour. Sorry. Now, what do you say we call a truce for the moment? I’ve brought a peace offering.” He handed her a small brown paper packet with a smile.

“Are you attempting to buy me off with sandwiches?” she asked, taking it and turning it over in her hands, not opening it. “That’s rather insulting. I must be worth more than that, surely?”

“I owe you for the toast, not to mention the fright I must have given you. And they’re ham, you know. I saw my family recently, and they live over in a village in Kent, so –”

Julia didn’t argue any further, merely unwrapping them. Arguing with a gift of ham was the sort of luxury she could only indulge when not trying to make her rations stretch to cover two. “Peace offering accepted, then.”

“And,” he added, “I did think it might be awkward, with your brother staying.”

She turned to look at him again. “That’s either very thoughtful of you, or terribly devious and underhand.”

“Since we don’t like each other, it’ll be much easier if you assume the latter,” he said, but while he kept his face solemn as he spoke, she could see a gleam of amusement in his eyes.

Julia had to stifle an unreasonable sense of annoyance at the idea that he might not like her. The other way around was perfectly explicable, of course.

“Your brother hasn’t been back in touch with us yet,” he said.

Julia felt herself stiffen immediately into the defensive. “Well, what did you expect?” she said. “And I’m not spying on him for you, you know. You haven’t given me proof of anything. Even if you had, I couldn’t ever betray Rudy.”

“I’m not asking you to,” he said, leaning forwards. “I want to help, that’s all. My people would rather nothing happened to your brother, but if he won’t co-operate then they’ll only shrug if it does and remind themselves that they did try to warn him. But the thing is – do you remember the first time we met?”

She met his gaze. “Oh, you mean the time you were so obnoxious to me at a party?”

“I’m sorry about that,” said Mr Iveson. “I believe I said so at the time. But that’s not the point. I said then that our families used to know each other. I can remember your mother quite well – and I’m sure I’ve seen your brother before when he was nothing but a small child. If I can put this in such a selfish way, I don’t have any desire for my days with the service to end with his death. Can you accept that as a motive and at least hear me out?”

Julia privately admitted that she could, but she wasn’t prepared to give him even that much yet. “What I don’t see is what you can do,” she said. “If your people didn’t have any luck with Rudy, and if I haven’t – what do you think you can achieve?”

He stared ahead briefly, as if contemplating the question. “Oh, nothing, that’s probably true,” he said, half under his breath. “But I thought you could ask him to meet me again, and we can have a talk somewhere under his own terms. Between you and me, I think certain people felt he’d be easily scared by that performance, but of course, it only put his back up.”

“Well, I can ask him that,” Julia said. “I might even twist his arm to try and make him agree.” She looked away again then, screwing up the brown paper in her hands and wishing that she knew for certain she could trust him. Since Rudy was being far too optimistic and naïve in her opinion, it would be nice to think that she had an ally. 

“Are you all right?” he asked, watching her. She nodded hastily, unable to help feeling treacherously touched by the concern in his voice. She’d been alone for much too long, she thought, if she leapt at such scraps of comfort like the pigeons around them who’d rushed for any stray breadcrumbs that fell from her lap.

Julia got to her feet and smiled back at him, brushing her coat down. “Of course I am,” she said brightly, and marched away from him without looking back.

 

Julia explained Mr Iveson’s proposal to Rudy over tea. “I don’t see why you shouldn’t agree,” she said. “After all, these people already know where you are. If they wanted to do something dreadful, they wouldn’t need to wait for an invitation.”

“I know,” said Rudy. “I’ve been looking out the window and there’s a man in a car who keeps spending an awful lot of time parked opposite. Which is a thought.” He had an expression on his face that she recognised all too well from their childhood.

She pushed her plate away. “What is it now?”

“Well, if he’s here, they don’t need anyone outside – so, if he comes, you can keep him busy – distract him, you know – and it’ll be a good chance for me to – well, you don’t need to know the details, but then it’ll all be over and everything will be all right.”

Julia leant her elbows on the table, and gave Rudy a hard stare. “I’m sorry – if I can distract him? What are you proposing?”

“Well, you know,” said Rudy airily. “I told you. He likes you. He must do if he gives you ham sandwiches. Which, you know, _some_ sisters would have shared with their poor, starving brothers.”

Julia drew back. “Oh, honestly, Rudy! What do you think I should do? And, anyway, he doesn’t like me. He said so. It’s probably because I threw up over him the other day. Men can be so unreasonable.” And none more so than younger brothers, she added to herself, wondering what on earth she was going to do with hers. It seemed, she thought, with a sigh, that even if Rudy wasn’t as bad as Christy had been, that both of her brothers had inherited their mother’s eternally misplaced optimism and she’d been the one lumbered with her father’s more realistic common and business sense. It felt terribly unfair somehow.

“No, no,” said Rudy. “You wouldn’t have to do anything – of course not. You see, I’ve got this.” He pulled out a tiny square packet of paper, presumably containing a powder. “So, you put that in the tea or whatever and keep him talking –”

Julia took it from him. “I’m not Mata Hari, thank you. And what is this? Do I dare ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Rudy. “I think they said, but I don’t remember. I was given it for – well, for something else, but I didn’t need it. So that’s worked out for the best, really. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Ju. It’s not anything dangerous – and what else can we do if they keep watching us like this?”

Julia tightened her hold on the packet and bit back the instinct to beat her brother about the head with a rolled up newspaper until he saw sense. “I shall think about it. Look, Rudy, can’t you try hearing what it is that he has to say instead?”

“Oh, you don’t understand, either,” he said. “Once it’s finished they won’t care any more – and it’s all such a fuss over nothing! Let’s teach them a lesson.”

She wondered what he’d come up with if she refused to contemplate his idea and decided that she didn’t want to take that risk. “I’ll think about it,” she said. She’d have to agree later, she thought, but she’d do it with her fingers crossed behind her back. “I still think that you should talk to Mr Iveson, though.”

“That,” said Rudy, “is only because you’re a greedy-guts who’s hoping for more ham sandwiches.”

Julia forced a smile. “Ha,” she said, her heart not in their usual banter. She should trust Rudy, she thought, rather than some sinister government agent who she didn’t really know at all, but the opposite seemed to be the case.

 

“Well?” said Mr Iveson, sitting down on the bench next to her for the second time in as many days. If anyone was watching, they’d think she had an admirer.

Julia turned to look at him. “I should let you know straight away that I’m only here because I was hoping you might bring me lunch again. I shall go away again if not.”

“I can’t run to ham today,” he said, with a small smile and passed her another packet of sandwiches. “Only salmon paste, I’m afraid, but I didn’t forget.”

Julia felt her cheeks burn, despite the winter temperatures. “I was joking,” she said, and stifled ridiculous pangs of guilt. “You shouldn’t have.”

“But I did,” he said. “Will your brother meet me?”

Julia nodded, unwrapping the sandwiches, and taking a bite. It would be so much easier to be moral again once rationing was over, she thought. “At my flat, this evening. Seven-thirty. You do promise you aren’t going to try anything?”

“I wouldn’t tell you if I was,” he said, inclining his head slightly to one side, amused. “What would I be trying to accomplish by asking you first, anyway? Now, if I were trying to lure you away for your safety, perhaps –”

Julia stared down at the bread in her hand. “I’d feel happier if you’d – I don’t know – can’t you swear on your mother’s grave or something?”

He gave a slight flinch. “She’s not dead.”

“I’m sorry,” said Julia, although she noted for her own possible future interests that she’d touched a nerve with that comment. 

Mr Iveson gave a short cough, covering his own embarrassment perhaps, and merely said, “Seven-thirty it is, then, Miss Graves. And I promise I don’t mean either of you any harm – hand on my heart.”

“Thank you,” said Julia. “And, you know, I really don’t think he’d do anything, but I can’t vouch for Rudy feeling the same, so you’d better be careful.”

 

“I still don’t have anything to say to you people,” said Rudy. “If you’re not here to apologise, I think Julia should call the police, except I suppose that won’t do much good, will it?”

Mr Iveson glanced up from stirring his coffee. “I can apologise, if you like. I don’t think the department have behaved well, and I could certainly have done better. However, this is all thoroughly unofficial and –”

“So _you_ say.”

“Yes, true,” he murmured, giving a momentary blank look ahead of him, before turning his attention back to Rudy. “Nevertheless, it _is_ , and it would be much less tiresome if you could stop pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

Julia stared down at her own coffee, wondering what she’d hoped this would accomplish. She also wanted to avoid meeting Rudy’s gaze, as he kept shooting her meaningful looks, no doubt wanting to know if she’d done as she’d promised, which she most certainly hadn’t. If she lived in a badly written detective novel, she might start putting unknown drugs in visitor’s drinks, but not under any other circumstances. 

“I don’t,” said Rudy. “I’m here to visit my sister for the first time in years and you all keep pestering us. It’s not on, you know.”

Mr Iveson gave a brief nod. “I suppose I understand your position,” he said. “Very well. Let me tell you: I know about the group you’re working with in Berlin. We’re not especially interested in them or you, but some of our people were keeping tabs on a Communist cell over there and they seem to have an agent within your organisation. We intercepted coded messages and while we don’t know who the agent is, the conclusion is unavoidable.”

Rudy was still looking between her and Mr Iveson, Julia noted as she raised her head again. “You don’t know who because all this is just a fairy story.”

“I’m going to show you copies of two of the messages,” said Mr Iveson. “I’m not supposed to have them and I’m certainly not supposed to be sharing them with you, but I don’t blame anyone for wanting evidence before they believe something. You can’t keep them and I’m only going to give you a couple of minutes, but here we are.”

Rudy leant forward across the table as Mr Iveson produced the two sheets of paper from the inside of his jacket. “I still don’t see –”

“It’s in code, of course,” said Mr Iveson, “but I thought there was a chance you might recognise the handwriting. Of course, it could be you, but the department don’t think that’s very likely – and I would prefer to believe they’re right.”

Rudy did at least look at the notes, Julia was relieved to see. He’d gone very quiet, but he only shook his head and said that he didn’t have a clue who might have written them.

“The other thing I’d suggest,” said Mr Iveson, putting the papers away again, “is that you make sure you know what it is you’re carrying for them. Examine it as best as you can, but if you have any doubts, don’t open it. Call us. Your sister has the number – and I expect someone gave it to you the other day, too.”

Rudy shrugged, but glanced across at Julia, who was still drinking her coffee and keeping out of it. She couldn’t honestly weigh in on Rudy’s side, except to agree that Mr Iveson and his department, whoever they were, hadn’t behaved well, and it wouldn’t help either of them if she sided with Mr Iveson. Rudy stared at her again and she glared back, wishing he wouldn’t. 

“One moment,” said Mr Iveson suddenly, getting to his feet. Julia looked up at once, finding him unnervingly tall from this angle. He stopped beside Rudy. “A word in the kitchen, if you don’t mind, Mr Graves.”

Rudy opened his mouth to argue, and then stopped, much to Julia’s surprise. He nodded and got up, following Mr Iveson out of the room.

“Don’t mind me,” said Julia to the empty living room, for want of anything better to do, set about finishing her coffee in peace.

~o~

Edward shut the door behind him, reminding himself that it wouldn’t help to lose his temper now. “I saw what you did,” he said quietly. “So I swapped the cups around.”

Rudy started and some of the colour faded out of his face.

“No, don’t worry,” said Edward, and he didn’t quite manage to keep the contempt out of his voice this time. “I’d imagine you wouldn’t need me to tell you by now if that was what I’d done. Perhaps you hadn’t noticed, but I refrained from drinking any of mine. Now, how about you tell me _why_?”

Rudy shrugged, backing up against the worktop, defensively mulish; probably he knew that he had no justification for his actions. “It was supposed to be you, but I didn’t think Julia was going to go through with it. She said she would, but I knew she was probably just humouring me – but I couldn’t, because what if I was wrong? I _don’t_ want to hurt anyone, whatever you think; that’s the point.”

“And what was it?” asked Edward, just about managing to disentangle Rudy’s not entirely coherent explanation in his mind. “Purely out of interest, you know.”

Rudy only shrugged again.

“My God!” said Edward, forgetting the need to keep his voice down in his exasperation. “Well, you ought to be thankful I stopped you! What had your sister done to deserve you being that cavalier with her welfare?”

Rudy glared back. “Now, look, it was harmless! We don’t go round killing people!”

“I expect it was,” said Edward. “No one would trust you with anything lethal – what a liability! But you don’t seem to see – you young _idiot_ , ‘harmless’ is a relative term with these things –”

The door opened behind Edward and he turned to face Julia.

“I can hear you, you know,” she said. “This place isn’t all that soundproof. Rudy –”

“It wasn’t dangerous,” said Rudy. “I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t ever do that. It was just – I needed to get away, and I thought if you collapsed that would do just as well. He couldn’t have ignored you, and I’d have had my chance.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “Given the sort of person you think me, that was amazingly optimistic of you.”

“Rudy,” said Julia, ignoring Edward and looking at her brother, “is it true? You had another packet of that powder and you put it in my drink?”

“Well, yes – but he’s just making it sound worse!”

Julia took a step back. “Oh, God. You two carry on. I shall be out here, deciding if I ever want to talk to you again!”

“Ju!” said Rudy, as she slammed the door, painfully close to Edward. “Now look what you’ve done!”

Edward managed to rein in his temper. “Yes, you can thank me for it later. Now, let’s get back to the business in hand – do you know what you’re carrying? And if not, I suggest you find out. You don’t have to trust me. Just make sure you know what you’re doing.”

Rudy looked down, as if he was considering it, but then made a sudden move, heading for the door. Edward grabbed for him, only catching at the edge of his jacket and slipping on the lino, was overbalanced further by Rudy violently pulling away from him. He fell awkwardly, his head hitting the sharp corner of the skirting board before he landed on the floor.

He lay there for a moment, stunned. Hearing Rudy run, he made himself try to get up again, refusing to let everything fall to pieces now, and angry at himself for such clumsiness when it counted. The movement seemed to be too much, however: semi-consciousness met a sharp pain and faded into full unconsciousness.


	27. Not Just a Passing Phase (PG, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Rudy Graves, Elizabeth Long)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last thing Julia wants is for Mr Iveson to be lying dead in her kitchen with her brother to blame for it…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU early 1946. Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Rudy Graves, Elizabeth Long. Continuing directly from _Double Cross_. [3/4]
> 
> Prompts: White Chocolate #11 (grief), Sangria #27 (From the ashes, a fire shall be woken)
> 
> Notes/warnings: spies, injury, mentions of cancer.

“Rudy!” said Julia, jumping up from her chair as he raced out of the kitchen door, heading for the window and the fire exit beyond. She ran after him. “What are you doing?”

Rudy turned back and caught at her hand. “I’ve got to go, but Ju, you must see to him – I think I’ve killed him!”

“Rudy!” she said again, hanging onto his arm as he tried to pull away, but turning her head back towards the kitchen. There was, to give credence to his words, no sign of Mr Iveson emerging from it yet. She had to swallow back a sudden rush of sheer panic, letting go of Rudy, who promptly vanished, and heading back to the kitchen. She should have hurried, but she went slowly, wanting to delay the moment of truth. She didn’t know what she thought about Mr Iveson, but the last thing she wanted was him to be dead in her kitchen with Rudy to blame for it. 

She had trouble getting the door open, finding that Mr Iveson had fallen close to it, but she managed to get a gap big enough to allow her to step inside and crouch beside him.

“Oh, God!” she said. It didn’t look as if Rudy had exaggerated – Mr Iveson was lying on the lino of her kitchen, unconscious and with a worrying amount of blood beginning to pool under his head. Julia couldn’t think what to do for a minute; she felt too nauseous and shaken to do anything more than kneel there, saying his name.

She breathed in and forced herself to think – obviously the first thing to do was to stop the bleeding. She lifted her head, looking for anything immediately to hand and then pulled several tea clothes out of the drawer, pressing one against his head and praying under her breath for him to be all right.

He wasn’t dead, though, she realised as she began to calm down a little. Keeping the cloth against his head soon made it apparent to her that he was at least still breathing.

The next thing, Julia decided was to find a way of bandaging up his head so that she could telephone for help. She pulled off her cardigan first, pushing that under his head both for support and to try and hold the cloth in place while she let go, and then she hunted around in panicked haste for the scissors, using them to cut one of the other tea cloths into what amounted to one long strip with corners, using that to tie the other in place. She was shaking by the time she’d finished.

“Well, you’re a wonderful secret agent, aren’t you?” she said under her breath, but it still came out unevenly. “Oh, dear. I mean – if you can hear me, it _will_ be all right. I’m just going for help.”

She stood up, feeling reluctant to leave him like this but now she’d bound up his head as best she could, the only thing to do was to get help, both for him and for Rudy. She hurried back out into the living room and fished in her bag for the telephone number Mr Iveson had given her before running down the stairs to use the pay phone in the hallway. Mr Evans from the ground floor flat was on it, in the middle of a long complaint, but when she said it was an emergency, he cut his call off and passed her the receiver with an alarmed look, startling her by his uncharacteristic compliance even as she prepared to argue. She realised, belatedly as she took the receiver from him, that that she had blood over her skirt and blouse, enough to convince even an awkward neighbour that something was wrong.

“I need to speak to – to Aunty Marigold,” said Julia, feeling stupid and hoping that she’d got it right. She was sure she had – and she began to see why something slightly ridiculous might have its merits, because it was immediately more memorable. “Or ask how she is, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Miss?” said the voice on the other end, sounding cautious.

She took a deep breath and tried to keep her voice steady. “Listen, my name is Julia Graves and I need some help. My brother’s gone missing and your Mr Iveson is badly hurt. Please, can you send someone?”

 

Julia made it back to her kitchen to find Mr Iveson stirring.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t move,” she said, almost throwing herself back down onto her knees beside him. “I’ve done my best, but it’s not exactly professional. I don’t want you to start bleeding again.”

He moved his hand weakly, as if trying to put it to his head. “Your brother –” he murmured.

“Shh,” she said, carefully replacing her cardigan under his head with a cushion she’d brought in with her from the living room. “I’ve telephoned for help. Someone will be out looking for him and they’ll get you an ambulance, too, so you just stay there until they do.”

He frowned. “It wasn’t Rudy,” he added, and she had to lower her head to catch what he said. “Not this – just stupid –”

“I understand,” she said, and suddenly, now that she had nothing more to do but wait here with him, she found herself struggling against tears and she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

Mr Iveson had seemed to be drifting off again, but he looked up at her movement. “Miss Graves?”

“I’m not used to people nearly bleeding to death in my kitchen,” she said. “Maybe it wouldn’t bother you, but –” She bit her lip, angry with herself for forgetting to maintain a calm, reassuring bedside manner. 

“Scalp wound,” he said, indistinctly. “It would.”

She took his hand in both of hers. “Yes, I expect you’re right,” she said, determined not to let herself go to pieces until she’d handed him over to someone else. She’d done all the obvious things she could think of, but she didn’t know beyond that what else might help, or what certainly wouldn’t. And then there was Rudy, out there, running off to carry out an errand for people who might even kill him if he wasn’t careful.

“Mr Iveson?” she said, and it seemed ridiculous now to be sitting here like this and addressing him so formally when he might be dying; she might be the last human voice he heard. He’d passed out again, though, so it didn’t matter anyway. She kept hold of his hand, in case, and closed her own eyes against what seemed to be an endless catalogue of loss and death: so many everywhere in the war, and in particular, Mother and Christy, her friend Margaret, and Father before that – and now, perhaps Rudy too. Mr Iveson really had only been trying to help them, and see what had become of him, as if it was some curse that wouldn’t stop until she was the only one left alive.

 

The man who turned up in response to her telephone call arrived shortly after the ambulance men. After introducing himself, he soon ceased trying to talk to her about any of it. He led her back out into the living room, sat her down while she tried to stop crying, and told her firmly that he was sure everything would be all right and they would tell her as soon as they they’d found her brother. He added that she should probably have a cup of hot milk and go to bed rather than wait and then he left, his entire visit something of a blur in her mind.

Afterwards, beginning to come back to her usual self, she did as he’d suggested, since there didn’t seem to be anything else to do and she couldn’t settle even to listening to the wireless while she waited and worried over Rudy and Mr Iveson.

Eventually, Mr Evans came up in a bad temper to tell her that there was a telephone call for her downstairs and then departed, after giving her another stare, which was when she realised that she was still wearing her blood-bespattered skirt and blouse. She made her way down the narrow staircase and picked up the receiver, praying desperately that it would be good news, and then the unfamiliar voice on the other end said that Cousin Alfred was back at last and while it took her a moment, she thought she remembered the man telling her that would be the code for Rudy, but she couldn’t be sure. “My brother’s safe?” she said, hoping that wouldn’t break their rules. 

The man on the other end seemed to take pity on her. “Yes,” he said. “It’s all right, miss, he is. For now at least.”

He’d gone again before she thought to ask him about Mr Iveson. That didn’t seem to be something they imagined she’d be interested in.

 

In the morning, she had a brief visit from Rudy himself, being escorted by a different man again to pick up his belongings.

“Rudy,” she said, catching hold of him. “I don’t know whether to hug you or to shake you.”

He gave her a quick embrace in return. “I’m sorry – I’ve made such a mess of things, I know, and none of it was meant to be like that. Iveson is all right, isn’t he? I asked them but they didn’t seem to know, or they didn’t think I ought to.”

“I hope so,” said Julia. “At least, he was definitely alive when they took him away. I was going to ask you that. I’m sure he must be all right, Rudy. What happened?”

Rudy glanced at his escort again. “I’m not supposed to say much – look, I took Iveson’s advice about checking what I was delivering and it did seem a bit fishy, so I headed back this way and someone picked me up before I got here.”

“Oh,” said Julia, not finding that altogether reassuring. “And where are you going now?”

The other man stepped in, carrying Rudy’s small suitcase. “If you don’t mind, miss, we need to be leaving. We’ll be keeping an eye on him, though, don’t you worry.”

Hmm, thought Julia, and hoped that didn’t sound as ominous as she thought it did. As long as Rudy had seen sense, things sounded more likely to work out, though – and that brought her back to Mr Iveson who’d helped talk him down. She decided that the only thing to do was to get out the telephone book and ring round the nearest hospitals and see if she could find him that way.

 

Julia made her way down the ward towards Mr Iveson, feeling a little shame-faced because in the couple of hours in between her decision to track him down and her arrival here, she’d found herself lying increasingly outrageously in order to find out which hospital he was in, whether or not he was well enough for visitors, and now to stave off a last minute fear that the receptionist was going to tell her to go away just as she’d finally made it here. She’d mostly resorted to being his concerned fiancée, which was what she’d told the disapproving receptionist, but the woman had then relayed that on to a nurse, and Julia thought guiltily that she didn’t know for certain that Mr Iveson didn’t already have a fiancée or girlfriend or even a wife who might be annoyed about it, although she justified herself with the argument that if he had, then that was another reason he shouldn’t go staying the night in strange girls’ flats uninvited.

Still, she could easily explain, she reminded herself as she reached his bed, and gave him a tentative smile, unsure if he would want to see her. He might well have been lying there thanking his lucky stars that at least he’d finished with the Graves family. However, his expression lightened on seeing her, and she smiled more widely in relief, moving forward.

Julia sat down. “You look a bit better than yesterday.”

“Thank you,” he said. “And I feel it, too, but they won’t let me up yet. How are you?”

Julia gave another smile. “I’m fine. Rudy, too – at least he’s safe for the moment, anyway.”

“Good,” said Mr Iveson. “I am sorry – he didn’t do anything, you know. I just overbalanced trying to pull him back – so stupid –”

She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter, not as long as you’re both all right.”

“No thanks to me.”

Julia leant forward. “Yes, thanks to you. Rudy turned back because of something you said. He told me this morning.”

“Oh, well,” said Mr Iveson and managed a smile. “I suppose that makes the headache worthwhile, then.”

Julia nodded and then found herself stuck for words. She’d just wanted to see him, to be absolutely sure he was all right, and banish the image of him as he’d been lying in her kitchen yesterday. It still made her feel a little sick when she remembered it. She hadn’t thought beyond that and now, feeling awkward, she wished she had.

“You’re all right, though?” he said again, watching her. “I don’t really remember anything after I fell, but I suppose it must have given you a fright –”

She swallowed and felt the need to cut him off, not wanting to discuss it: what Rudy had done, fearing Mr Iveson was dead, clearing up the blood in her kitchen afterwards, none of it. “I wasn’t the one hurt and I wasn’t in danger like Rudy, either. You needn’t worry about me.”

She saw his expression cloud and realised that she’d been too short. “It’s kind of you to ask, though,” she added, but it didn’t seem to amend matters, so she stared across the ward and as she did, one of the nurses stopped, giving them both a smile, as she came across to check the notes clipped to the head of the bed. 

“Well,” she said, “I won’t get in your way – you’ll be glad to see your young lady, Mr Iveson.” Then she nodded at Julia. “Don’t let him get over-excited, though, or Matron will be after you.”

Edward opened his mouth, presumably to tell her she’d misread the situation, so Julia edged the chair forward and squeezed his arm in warning. “I may,” she said, in an undertone, and giving a small, apologetic grimace, “have told them I was your fiancée.”

“You know,” said Mr Iveson, “I thought this was turning out to be a terrible week, but I see now that I was wrong. Did I propose while I was unconscious or was it the other way around?”

Julia frowned at him. “Don’t be silly. I was afraid that awful receptionist was going to say I couldn’t see you. I’m sorry. I do hope you haven’t got a real fiancée or anything of the sort – if I’ve put you in an awkward position, I can’t apologise enough.”

“No,” he said, although he gave a sudden private smile. “My mother may turn up, but she’ll only be delighted at the news.”

Julia felt suddenly more embarrassed than she had expected. She really should think before she spoke, she thought, though with more weary resignation than real determination to change. “Now, don’t – you know I wasn’t serious.”

“Oh, now, come on,” he said. “I’m sure you’re not the sort of girl who’d jilt a fellow when he’s lying up in hospital.”

“Mr Iveson, please stop teasing me.”

He gave a grin, and then it faded slightly as he gave a wince. “Yes. I expect I’m still rather light-headed.”

“Well,” said Julia, “I only came to check you were alive and my efforts yesterday hadn’t been wasted, and clearly you are, so I suppose there’s no reason to stay, is there?”

Mr Iveson lost his smile altogether. “Yes, of course,” he said. “Thank you. I’m sure you’re very busy. I do appreciate you coming.”

“I’m not all that busy,” she said as she got up, “but I am afraid I do have some errands to run now it’s the weekend – and I don’t want to be out too long in case I miss any more news of Rudy. Besides, that nurse told me not to excite you, and I’m fairly sure arguing with you was exactly the kind of thing she meant.”

He gave a small smile; he did seem rather tired by her visit, despite how well he said he now was, she thought, standing up.

“Thank you,” he said again, more quietly. “I suppose you might have saved my life yesterday.”

Julia took his hand briefly and leant over to kiss him on the cheek. “I know – and when I still haven’t decided if I even like you or not.” She drew back with a smile, and turned to walk away, stopping abruptly as she nearly crashed into an older woman who could only be Mr Iveson’s mother.

“Oh,” she said, and stepped back, stammering out a hasty and incoherent apology. 

The other woman gave a smile, tilting her head slightly as she did so, and then held out her hand. “I’m Mrs Taylor, Edward’s mother. Someone did tell me that his fiancée was visiting, but I assumed they’d made a mistake. I see that perhaps it was I who made the error.”

“Oh, dear,” said Julia, with a glance back at Mr Iveson. She took Mrs Taylor’s hand and shook it carefully – Mrs Taylor wasn’t old, but she seemed frailer than she should; a little too thin. Julia wondered if she was ill; if that was why Mr Iveson had reacted when she’d made that comment about swearing on his mother’s grave. “Well, yes, it is all a mistake. I’m really not anybody at all – I’m sure Mr Iveson will know how best to explain to you, but I just happened to be there when he had the accident. My name’s Julia Graves.”

Mrs Taylor stopped and stared at her closely, searching her face for something, even as Julia remembered what Mr Iveson had said about their families being acquainted. “Julia Graves?” she said and stretched out a hand before drawing it back again. “Not Hanne’s daughter?”

It had been a while since Julia had moved in circles where people knew her for her mother’s daughter, and she found it best simply to nod, not wanting to repeat yesterday’s tears.

“I used to know your mother well,” said Mrs Taylor. “We lost touch later on, but I was always very fond of Hanne. And you, my dear. I remember you from when you were quite small – you and both your brothers –”

Julia managed an uneven smile. “Rudy’s still around,” she said. “It was actually Rudy that Mr Iveson was trying to help – but as I said, he’ll explain, I’m sure.” She edged away, ready to go, but Mrs Taylor put out a thin hand to touch her arm.

“Julia,” she said, “I’m very sorry. Is it only you and Rudy now? Is there no one else?”

“Just us,” Julia said, trying to sound cheerful. She didn’t like to pull away from Mrs Taylor, but she pulled her handbag straighter, signalling her intent to go again. She didn’t want to talk about it, especially not in public. “I still have an uncle, I think, maybe even my great-aunts, but they all hated my mother and I really can’t –”

Mrs Taylor gave a sad smile. “No, well, Hanne wasn’t really the sort of person the Graveses wanted Harold to marry, more fool them.”

“Don’t,” said Julia, something catching in her throat. “Please –”

Mrs Taylor gave a small nod and released her. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry. I’m not asking for motives of idle curiosity. I was very fond of your mother, and I’d like to see you again, if you wanted, though don’t suppose you remember me?”

“I never remember much from when I was young,” said Julia. It was true, but she still felt the need to paper over the omission with a white lie: “I think perhaps you do look a little familiar?” She shrugged but she let Mrs Taylor give her her address and only then made her escape.

 

~o~

 

“Well, Edward?” said his mother as she sat down in the chair that Julia had vacated shortly before. “ _Are_ you going to explain?”

He closed his eyes. “I don’t think I’m up to it.”

“If you’d got in touch with any of the Graveses again, surely you must have realised I would want to know,” she said. “Really, Ned. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Edward managed to give a slight shrug. What could he say? That he wasn’t sure if she was well enough to know about it, or if she would be permitted to see him or see Julia even if he did? And he certainly couldn’t explain that given Julia’s current opinion of him, she would have been bound to find it very odd if he’d started insisting she visit his mother on top of everything else. In fact, he thought with an inward grin, her reaction to that might have made it worth making the attempt.

“I’m glad, though,” said his mother in a carefully neutral tone, “that you were so good about going to great lengths to help the brother.”

He opened his eyes again, biting back a smile. “That’s very unfair.”

“Is it?” she said. “Then it’s probably as well, because you should be careful with that girl. She’s still grieving, and small wonder.”

Edward registered a flicker of irrational irritation. “Well, you needn’t worry. I’m not exactly in a state to do anything to anyone.”

“No, of course,” she said, and took his hand briefly, but she wouldn’t look at him and she didn’t say anything about not having come last night when they told her. She couldn’t, he knew; he understood that, just as he hadn’t yet asked her how she was, both busy avoiding the fact that they were going to lose each other again soon, no matter what happened.

He gave her a smile. “I’m fine, you know. It was only a silly accident.” 

“I’m glad to hear it,” said his mother.

 

~o~

 

Rudy came back three days later, this time unattended by any officials or sinister agents. He was somewhat subdued, but all he would tell her was that he couldn’t tell her the details. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You weren’t supposed to get mixed up in any of it whatever happened. I just wanted to be able to _do_ something and all I did was make things worse. I can still go back to the group, I suppose, but this makes a difference.”

Julia bit her lip. “Yes,” she said, “I can understand that. It would be nice to be able to do something, I agree – and it isn’t impossible, you know. Maybe you can find something else now, something better?”

“I don’t know,” said Rudy. “But there are things to be sorted there if nothing else. I’ll have to think about it when I get back.”

Her heart gave a small, unpleasant skip and she looked up. He wasn’t even thinking about not returning, she realised. “Rudy, you could stay. Couldn’t you?”

“Well, not now,” he said. “I don’t suppose anyone would let me if I tried this time, not after this business. And there are things to do out there – and I do have a job. I’ll come back, though. Maybe for good, maybe for a visit, but I will. You, too – you can come and see me. Things’ll get better again. They’ve got to.”

Julia had to smile. She should have thought of all that, but she hadn’t – she’d simply been glad to have him back, despite all the chaos he’d brought with him. 

“And – about the other day,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “What I did – Julia, I’m really sorry. It was only – I was so frustrated waiting around here, not being able to do what I’d been asked to and I thought – I’m sorry.”

She nodded. “You wanted to be able to do something, I know. All right. Apology accepted – as long as it’s understood that if you ever try anything like that again, I shall kill you. And you know I can. What I lack in brute strength,” she said with a smile as she stood, “I more than make up for in low cunning.”

“I remember,” said Rudy, and they both laughed at last. It felt like a weight lifting, but she still wished he could stay. He’d probably throw himself into something else equally as ill-advised once he was out of her sight and she couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to him. She was being morbid, she knew, but it was hard after everything to believe that a person who went away really would come back again. Even if he did, she still had to live without him here and she was so very tired of being alone.

 

“Miss Graves,” said Edward Iveson as she opened the door a few days later to find him there again. “I hope you don’t mind me calling?”

Julia waved him in. “It’s a bit late for me to object, isn’t it? Should you be here, though? Are you all right?”

“They do let one out eventually,” he said with mock-solemnity. “And now that they have, I thought I had better come to see you – to warn you –”

“Oh, _no_ ,” said Julia, her heart sinking at those sinister words. “Whatever can it be now?”

He stopped in confusion, and then his face cleared again, and he said, “No, no – nothing like that! This is merely personal. May I explain?”

“Please do,” said Julia, amused because she thought his current formality and politeness rather belated after everything that had happened. “And do sit down; make yourself at home – as usual!”

Mr Iveson gave her a faintly hurt look and then sat down on the small sofa, placing his hat on the seat beside him. “Miss Graves, this really has nothing to do with the previous business – I’m finished with the department anyhow. I was due to do so soon and since I’m officially still convalescent – I won’t go back there – it’ll be the Foreign Office again, for the time being at least.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Julia. “Someone had to curb your habit of sneaking into people’s flats uninvited and leaping out on them in their lunch hours. I hope they keep you very busy – I’m sure you can cure yourself of the compulsion in time.”

He watched her warily as she sat on the chair opposite, giving him a smile, and feeling satisfied that she had managed to score a few points at last.

“All I came to say,” said Mr Iveson, and she’d ruffled him this time; she could hear it in his voice, “was that I wanted to warn you that my aunt is going to visit and invite you to stay with her.”

Julia blinked. “Goodness,” she said. “Why should she do that?”

“It’s nothing to do with me, I promise,” he said. “I knew you’d think it was odd, but she and my mother don’t realise what a nuisance I’ve made of myself, and they knew your mother.”

Julia nodded, beginning to understand. “I see.”

“So, when my Aunt Anne turns up, I hope you’ll consider her invitation on its own merits,” he said. “I won’t be there and she means well. She’s very kind, very sensible – she won’t try to bully you or jolly you into doing things if you did go down for a weekend. I suspect my mother is behind it, but Aunt Anne was equally keen – they only want to give you some space, some time – people to call on if you need someone.”

Julia recognised that Mrs Taylor and this unknown ‘Aunt Anne’ were no doubt trying to be kind, but she wasn’t sure she wanted or needed anybody’s pity.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” he said, glancing up at the ceiling. “My family can be interfering sometimes – but nobody will mind if you turn them down, either. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t want you to think – well –”

Julia relented and gave a smile. “You didn’t want me to think that you’d put them up to it, or that they all still believe I am your fiancée? And, by the way, I am sorry about that. I really must learn to think before I make up wild tales.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” he said with a sudden grin. “My standing on the ward rose considerably once that got about. You’ve no idea.”

She saw him reach for his hat, the signal that he was about to leave, and she wished suddenly that he wouldn’t. It had felt deathly quiet these last few days without Rudy. “You don’t have to go,” she said, standing as he did. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea or coffee? I’ll even be perfectly polite while you drink it, too, I promise.”

“It’s a very tempting offer,” he said, with another smile. “However, I can’t stay I’m afraid, but Miss Graves –” He held out a piece of paper to her. “My contact details, if you want them. I’d very much like to see you again – some time in the future, maybe when all of this is fully behind us both – if you were willing?”

Julia took the folded sheet of notepaper, playing with it; unsure what to say. She thought about his unreasonable behaviour, first at that party, and then in staying at her flat, but she also remembered him running out after to apologise, and her vague recollections of him during her drunken misadventures were actually more reassuring than otherwise. None of it was the stuff of romance, but she’d needed someone to come and take her out of that club, otherwise she’d have simply stayed sitting there in defeat until she had to try and stumble home alone, with no idea what had become of Rudy. Besides, she thought with inward amusement, one couldn’t hate a man who brought her sandwiches, however questionable his motives.

“Thank you,” she said and saw him to the door. She leant her head against the door post, making up her mind: despite everything, she rather thought she did like him. They had managed by turn to place themselves in each in the other’s hands, and when she thought of him helping her home and her watching over him in her kitchen, her heartbeat quickened a little at the idea of trying such things under much more favourable circumstances. (Both of them being conscious would be a considerable improvement, just for starters.) “I think – I think that would be very nice.”

“Good,” he said, his face lighting up with relief and he caught briefly at her hand, his fingers brushing against hers as he released her. “I’m so glad. I thought you might be horrified, given my behaviour.”

Julia laughed. “I’m being optimistic and assuming you’ve already done your worst, so whatever comes next must be an improvement.”

“Er, yes,” he said, giving her a more wary look. “I should hope so. Well – goodbye, then, Miss Graves. For the moment.”

“For the moment,” Julia echoed, and then smiled as she shut the door behind him, alone still, but a little less so than before.


	28. All the Rumours Are True (T, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe there’s a law somewhere that says the lies you tell will become the truth…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Feb/Mar 1946, Edward Iveson/Julia Graves. (This was just a short epilogue for the AU sequence, following on shortly after _Not Just A Passing Phase_ but . . . it grew.) [4/4]
> 
> Prompts: Prune #11 (go with the flow); White Chocolate #30 (content) + Brownie + Chopped Nuts + Malt – Birthday prompt (You can't gain anything without losing something first – from shayna611) + Gummy Bunnies - also for Hurt/Comfort Bingo square “moving”.

_Friday_

It was early afternoon when the telephone rang. Edward picked up the receiver, but before he could say anything more than his number, he was rudely cut off by an irate voice on the other end.

“I just wanted to say congratulations and well done and all that to you and your wretched department,” said Julia Graves, “and, so you know, I shall be cursing you all the time I’m wondering around London with my bags and boxes. I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”

Edward paused, feeling bemused under this attack. When he’d left Julia the other week, she’d sounded encouraging rather than hostile, and it wasn’t as if he’d had any opportunity since then to annoy her. He hadn’t even got around to telephoning her yet; it had still seemed too soon to him. “Miss Graves – Julia – what on earth is it? I haven’t done anything, I assure you, and I can’t imagine why anyone else would have. Where are you?”

“Still here – for the moment,” she said sounding oddly indistinct.

He raised his eyebrows. “Miss Graves? You’re not drunk again, are you?”

“ _Oh!_ ” she said, and put the phone down with force, the click echoing sharply in his ear. He stared at the silent receiver, and then replaced it, pausing for a long, dazed moment before grabbing his hat and coat from the nearby hook and racing out of the door. ‘Here’ could surely only mean her flat, and it sounded as if he should hurry.

 

Edward hesitated outside the door to the flat, having had plenty of time during the drive over here to question whether he’d made a mistake in assuming that she was in trouble. Even if she was, she hadn’t sounded as if she wanted to see him. Still, he thought, since he was here, there was no point in going back without at least trying to speak to her. He knocked on the door and had to steady himself as it unexpectedly swung open at his touch.

He cautiously peered round, finding Julia sitting on the floor in the middle of the living room, surrounded by boxes, some closed, some open. It didn’t need anything more for the situation to suddenly make perfect sense, and he felt his heart sink for her, and because she was right – a good deal of it was his fault, even if it had never been his intention.

“Miss Graves,” he said, and, since she’d hadn’t looked up or yelled at him to go away, made his way across to her. “Julia. I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She looked up in dull surprise. “Why are you here?”

“You telephoned,” he said, crouching down beside her. “You sounded – well, I thought that something must have happened, and I came round to see if you were all right.”

Julia frowned, as if she could hardly remember that far back. “Oh. I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you did. Look, I see exactly what you meant now. Can I at least help you pack?”

She gave a tired, half-hearted laugh and waved a hand at the boxes. “Oh, that’s all done but the last few things. All but me. And I found somewhere else to go, I did everything I had to, I even booked the van for tomorrow. And now it seems I can’t move in till Monday and I can’t get those removal people and here am I with a lot of boxes and nowhere to go and no means of getting there.”

“Look, maybe I could speak to your landlady?” he said, thinking that he could at least ask if they could give her the weekend before insisting she move out.

Julia seemed to rouse herself from her current odd, apathetic state, and said, “Oh, yes, I’m sure my landlady will feel better if you go down and talk to her. You’re just the man who dragged me in drunk and stayed the night and then had a fight in my kitchen.”

“All right, maybe not then,” said Edward. “But I can help –” He stopped, watching her, unsure she was listening or really taking anything in. “Come on,” he said instead. “How about some tea? You haven’t packed the kettle?”

“No. I burnt a hole in the bottom of it and then I didn’t need to.” She shook herself slightly, and looked up again. “Oh, go away. It doesn’t matter. I’ll sort something else out, of course I will.”

Edward stood up again. “Julia, I’m just going next door. I won’t be long.”

“Well, I told you I don’t want you here,” she said, but she closed her eyes and looked away.

“I’m sure you don’t, but you _do_ need a hand with this. So I’m not leaving yet. As I said, I’ll be back in a moment. You hang on there.” With that, he left Julia’s flat and crossed the landing to knock on the door of the other second floor flat. Moments later, it was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron and a flustered look.

“Yes?” she said, all wariness, even as she tried distractedly to tidy herself – straightening down her apron and tucking back one of several loose strands of hair.

Edward coughed, unable to help being embarrassed. “I’m very sorry to trouble you, but I’ve come from next door. It’s a cheek, I know, but I wondered if you might be kind enough to spare us a cup of tea. Miss Graves is rather upset and doesn’t have any to hand.”

“I suppose I don’t see why not,” said the woman, after blinking for a moment at the request. “Poor girl. That landlady is a tartar – had words with me the other week because my sister’s children ran up the stairs when they came round. And Miss Graves is a nice girl, not like some.” On saying that, she gave Edward a sudden, suspicious look.

Edward deflected that with a smile and Julia’s own lie: “Oh, I’m her fiancé – Edward Iveson,” he said, and it seemed to work; her face cleared instantly.

“Sugar, milk?” she asked, letting him into the main room, and disappearing into the kitchen. “Lucky for you, I’d just made a pot, so it’s no trouble.”

Edward hastily caught himself before he ruined his own story by telling her that he didn’t know whether Julia took either. He decided it didn’t matter anyway at the moment. “She is in rather a state,” he said. “Both, please, if you would.”

She returned a minute or so later with a mug. “There you go,” she said. “You take that in for her and mind you tell her that I think it’s a crying shame, throwing her out like that. It’s not most of us, you know – just those ground floor grumblies! I mean, there was some trouble the other week, but that was only an accident, so I heard.”

“Yes, yes, it was,” said Edward. “Thank you very much.”

 

“Julia,” he said, carefully putting the mug on the nearby low table, and then moving one step further forwards to pull her up, from where she was still sitting in a heap on the floor. She still seemed too dazed to offer him any resistance, so he guided her over to the sofa, and then passed her the mug of tea. “Now, drink that, and then we’ll talk.”

She put her hands round the mug, and he perched on the edge of the armchair, watching her anxiously. She’d been through a lot, he knew, from what she’d told him that first morning he’d been here. He hoped this wasn’t one loss too many. Eventually, however, the smell of the tea and the warmth of it against her seemed to get through and she drank it, if rather mechanically.

“Now,” said Edward, once she’d put the empty mug back down on the table, “I’m sorry. I should have thought of something else that night – I should have been a damned sight more careful all round. Still, here we are, and what I can help with, I will – and then I’ll go away and leave you in peace. Now, the boxes aren’t a problem. We’ll cart them over to my house and they can easily stay there for two days. Which means that’s only you needing somewhere to go until Monday. Who do you know who might take you in? Is there a friend – or somebody at work, perhaps?”

Julia had regained some colour and she seemed to be taking in what he was saying again, he was relieved to see. However, at that, she sat up abruptly and shook her head. “No!” she said. “I mean, it can’t be anyone from work. I found this place through somebody there and I’m already worried enough that they’ll hear and then I’ll lose my job, too. I might not like it, but I can’t afford to go throwing it away, either.”

“Oh, God,” said Edward, taking her point. He didn’t argue. It was sadly only too probable. “All right. A friend, then.”

Julia pressed herself back into the sofa and wouldn’t look at him. “I haven’t any.”

“Don’t be silly,” he said, unable to help it. Julia was not the kind of person who didn’t have friends; or at least, it was impossible for him to picture her that way.

She leant her head against the sofa wearily. “Not for a while,” she said. “Not someone I’ve spoken to recently enough to ask them for a favour. Probably wouldn’t even be at the same addresses.” She turned her head again in time to catch his expression. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. It was – it just happened. There was Margaret, but she died – so silly, she went out of London, back to her home town for the weekend and some German plane decided to offload his bombs on the outskirts –” She stopped. “Well, anyway. Margaret isn’t around any more.”

“Julia, I’m not trying to be heartless. There must be somebody, surely?”

“I won’t go to my uncle.” She stiffened as she said it, glaring at him. “And the great aunts are too far away and too old, even if they weren’t even worse. And, no, no, there isn’t! Please stop asking!”

“Julia –”

“It’s only that some of the girls were beastly about Mother after war broke out,” she said. “All very stupid, but I didn’t want to see any of them afterwards and wouldn’t write back to people. I regret that now, but I can’t suddenly turn up and ask them to let me stay. And because of that I kept out of everyone else’s way as far as I could. Not being unfriendly, you know, but – it seemed easier.”

Edward watched her, wanting to cross over and hug her, but he stayed where he was. The situation was bad enough without complicating it further. “Yes, I think I see,” he said softly, “but, Julia, the war _is_ over, you know.”

She looked up at him suddenly and then burst into tears. After a moment or two of awkward indecision as he watched her cry, he moved over to the sofa and sat down at a careful distance from her, and passed her his handkerchief. Then he edged nearer, ready to put his arm around her if she showed any sign of wanting him to. She didn’t look at him, but merely leant against him with another sob, and he held her, closing his eyes and ignoring the unwisdom of the situation. He stroked her hair and kissed her head lightly. “Julia,” he murmured, almost without any awareness of the fact. “Julia.”

 

“I’m sorry,” said Julia a little while later, in between blowing her nose again, and drying her eyes. “I don’t know what came over me.”

Edward shook his head. “We’ve already established that I’m the one who ought to be sorry, not you. Now, come on – if you need to be out, we’d better make a start, hadn’t we? Go clean yourself up and take that cup back to Mrs Harrison, and I’ll make a start on loading up the car.”

“Oh, please, don’t feel obliged,” said Julia. “I _do_ feel a lot more myself now – I’m sure I’ll be able to sort something out.”

Edward patted her arm as he got up. “Look, I’m here and I might as well make myself useful. Once that’s done, I’ll stand you dinner somewhere and we can work out where you can stay. But we’d better get a move on. You don’t seem to have very much, but it’s still going to take at least two trips to get everything round to my place.”

“Hmm,” said Julia, standing with a return of some of her usual humour. “Am I falling in with some wicked plan of yours – first you ruin my reputation and have me thrown out of my flat and next you lure me off to whereabouts unknown?”

Edward was glad to see her joking again, but immediately wished she wouldn’t. “Honestly, I think that’s in rather bad taste.”

“Oh, do you?” she said, and bit back a laugh. 

“I mean, it’s hardly likely,” he said, “given the way we met. If I’d wanted to take advantage…” His voice trailed off, as he realised he was only going to dig himself into a very large and unnecessary hole if he didn’t. At the time, all of that had seemed only like a nuisance, but now, despite what had actually happened, the memory of having his arm round Julia, holding her against him in the cab, practically carrying her up the stairs, and dragging her into her flat looked quite different. She’d passed out at that point, and he’d had to put her to bed and even being as careful as he could, he’d had to remove her coat, her jacket, her shoes . . . He hastily stopped that train of thought and instead searched his pockets for another hanky in order to do something about the damp patch on his jacket where she’d cried over him.

Julia was watching him, her head tilted. “It was meant to be a joke,” she said. “Mind, I don’t think that I’ll apologise if I offended you – not yet.”

“No, no, of course not,” said Edward, and turned to survey the boxes as she disappeared off to the bathroom. He made sure the nearest one was reasonably secure, then shed his jacket and set off carrying it down the stairs.

 

Edward got the last but two of the boxes into the car and then set out for Chalcot Crescent, Julia staying behind to clean the rest of the flat and because in terms of cargo, it was either her or the boxes and while Edward had no doubt as to which he’d prefer as a passenger, one had to be practical. 

By the time he returned, Julia was waiting for him outside the building. He opened the car door, but didn’t even have time to climb out before she hurried over, catching hold of the other side of the door.

“Mr Iveson,” she said, breathlessly. “I’ve been thinking – I can’t possibly go out to dinner with you. You’ve just taken away all my clothes!”

He knew what she meant, but he couldn’t help giving a scandalised glance about him, checking that there was no one in earshot. “Julia!” Then he laughed, half at himself, and got out of the car, shutting the door behind him as he looked down at her. “Don’t you think you should call me Edward? And I wasn’t planning to take you anywhere grand. When I came here the other week, I stopped at a little place down the road. It was fairly basic, but not bad. I thought you’d rather avoid any fuss after the day you’ve been having.”

“Oh, good,” said Julia, and took his arm. “Lead on, then.”

Edward had to laugh. “When you said you were in this for the free meals, you weren’t lying, were you?”

“No, sadly,” said Julia. “But if it’s any consolation, I’m no more than you deserve.”

He couldn’t let that pass. “Oh, I think you would be, you know.”

She only shook her head and wouldn’t look at him.

 

“So,” said Edward, “have you had any ideas about where to stay?”

Julia looked up from eating her cottage pie, and shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” she said, “but I keep drawing a blank. I shall simply have to see if I can find a hostel or something.”

“Not this evening,” Edward said. “I couldn’t possibly leave you traipsing about London like that. I tell you what, if you don’t hate the idea, you could stay with my mother – or my cousin. I’m sure it wouldn’t be a problem. Then you could find somewhere else in the morning.”

Julia leant forward. “Do you really think she wouldn’t mind?”

“Well, we can ask once we get back to my place,” said Edward. “I’ll telephone her.”

Julia looked down again, biting back a smile.

“What?” he said. “Julia?”

She lifted her head, struggling not to laugh too hard in the little restaurant. “Well, after having assured her last time that I was merely a chance acquaintance and not your fiancée, what are we going to tell her this time?”

“Ah, yes,” he said, and grinned. “I suppose I’ll think of something.”

Julia returned her attention to her food. “If I was her, I don’t think I’d believe us now, whatever we said,” she told him, after swallowing her mouthful.

“Well,” said Edward, pushing his luck a little, “maybe we should confess that we lied before and, in fact, we are engaged.”

She raised an eyebrow. “If we said that, she might expect us to go through with it at some point, you know.”

“Lots of these things come to nothing,” said Edward. “And besides –”

Julia raised her gaze to meet his. It was suddenly disconcerting. “Besides what?”

“Nothing,” said Edward. He’d nearly got far too carried away, and she was looking at him in a way that he found impossible to interpret. He wasn’t convinced it was a good sign. “We’ll just pray for inspiration or something. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

 

Afterwards, they returned to Julia’s flat to fetch down the last two boxes, and loaded them into the back of the car before returning the key to the landlady, who lived in one of the ground-floor flats. The woman opened the door grudgingly; her stance already rigid with her disapproval of Julia before her gaze strayed to Edward behind her and hardened further.

“I’m sorry,” said Edward, not willing to overlook her attitude. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Edward Iveson – Julia’s fiancé.”

She shut her mouth with a snap, the words evidently forestalling whatever criticism she’d been about to make. Instead, she took the keys with a nod and said ominously that she’d be going over the flat closely later. Julia passed the woman her new address and then she and Edward made their escape.

Julia raised an eyebrow at Edward as they emerged into the night together. 

“As lies go,” he said, refusing to apologise, “it seems to be catching. Besides, it might even help, given the circumstances. You never know.”

She headed back to the car. “And are you still going to be using that as your excuse when we’re celebrating our first anniversary, darling? Because when I went to take that cup back to Mrs Harrison, she seemed to be labouring under the same impression.” 

“Well, you were the one who started it,” said Edward, and opened the car door for her. As she got in, he coughed slightly, and said, “Yes, sorry, Julia. I’ll be out of your way soon enough.”

She paused and put her hand on his as he held the door, but she didn’t say anything, merely looking at him and then letting go as she climbed into the passenger seat. She was still quiet as they drove along and he wondered what she was thinking, casting several anxious sidelong glances at her, hoping that nothing was wrong. She was mostly staring out of the window, either ahead or to the side, watching the lights go by.

“Edward,” she said, eventually, when they weren’t far from his house. “What’s wrong with your mother?”

It was the last thing he’d expected, and he turned his head to stare at her, before hastily remembering to keep his eyes on the road. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just what I was thinking – you said I could go and stay with her, and so – well, there is something wrong, isn’t there? And surely it would be better if I knew – that way I won’t put my foot in it or be a nuisance.”

Edward pretended to concentrate on the road, even though he was barely any distance from his own street now and knew this stretch backwards. It was stupid to hate stating a simple fact, especially after everything that had happened during the war, but he did. “Cancer, I believe,” he said, eventually.

“I’m sorry,” said Julia again. She turned towards him; he heard the movement, the brushing of her coat against the seat as she did. “Are the doctors not sure, then?”

Edward turned the corner into Chalcot Crescent, bringing the car to a halt outside number twelve. “No, no. It is cancer. It’s only that she hasn’t exactly told me. I got it from her housekeeper.” He shrugged. “But that doesn’t matter. She’ll have you to stay all right. And my stepfather is away so that won’t be – well, never mind.”

“Now, wait,” said Julia, “I’d rather try to find a hostel than get dragged into a family drama, thank you.”

“It’d be all right for you – I wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. I can’t imagine he’d have a problem with the daughter of an old friend of hers. The rest doesn’t matter. It’s much better these days, anyway.”

“Oh, come on,” said Julia softly, “I’m your fiancée. You can tell me anything.”

Edward had to laugh, some previously unnoticed tightness easing out of him. “It’s a long story and I don’t know the half of it myself, but I’ve hardly seen her since she married him.”

“And when was that?”

“I was eleven,” said Edward. “As far as I know, he couldn’t stand me – couldn’t stand to think she’d been married before, but – it’s all rather complicated.” His mother wasn’t an easy person to ask questions of, or at least not that question, even now, and Edward wasn’t sure he wanted the answers. If his mother hadn’t cared enough to keep him, he didn’t want to hear it – and if the reverse was true, then all those years in between then and now when he’d resented her leaving him and put off going to see her for so much longer than he should have done would pile up against him.

Julia reached out to him, putting one gloved hand to his face. “Poor you,” she said, almost mockingly, but the sympathy in her expression and the gesture was genuine. She stretched over further, and kissed him.

“I should make that phone call,” he said as she drew back. He tried to keep his voice even, but he didn’t quite succeed, knowing that he was overreacting to what was only a casual piece of kindness, nothing more. “I won’t be a moment – you may as well wait here if you like.”

Julia had been watching him, but sitting in shadow, her expression impossible to make out. Now she looked up sharply and then got out of the car. “Oh, so you can visit my flat whenever you like, but I don’t even get to see where you’ve put my things?”

“Of course not,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean that. Come in, if you like. You can admire the hallway while I use the telephone.” He would, he thought, have felt a good deal more comfortable if she had stayed in the car. Light as it was, that kiss was playing on his mind and it would be the better for both of them once he’d taken her safely elsewhere.

He opened the front door and held it for her, then following her in as she looked about her with interest. “Hmm,” she said, turning around in a full circle as she closed the door behind him.

“Something wrong?” he asked, amused again.

Julia leant against the banister. “I don’t know. It just seems a little – not you.”

“I’ve been renting it out for a long while,” he said. “I only took it back over a month or so ago. It needs a fair bit of work – I suppose I shall finally have to sort that out now.”

Julia folded her arms and gave a smile. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic. I’d love to have a project like that in hand – so much better than typing. In the war, I helped with organising volunteers. It was too hectic sometimes, but I enjoyed it. Now all I do is make sure the orders for pencils are filed neatly.”

“I don’t think you redecorating my house would stop people talking about us,” said Edward. “In fact, if we did that, I suspect the Foreign Office would be having words with me as well. Now, excuse me – I had better ring Mother.”

Julia nodded, unbuttoning her coat, as he turned to pick up the receiver and, knowing the number, he started to dial through. He didn’t get very far, however, as she moved across suddenly, putting her hand down the phone, cutting him off before he’d started.

“Julia,” he said, in annoyance, “what do you think you’re doing?”

She had left her coat hanging on the end of the banister and now she leaned against the wall beside him and said, “Have you asked me if I want to stay the night with your mother? Perhaps I’d rather not. Perhaps I’d rather not try and think of any more explanations for what we’ve been up to. Because, you know, Edward, I don’t think I can even explain it to myself. How about you?”

“I did ask,” he said, and then had to think back over the afternoon and evening. “At least – I thought I had. And, anyway, you have to stay somewhere, so –”

Julia had opened the nearest door and was peering into the living room. Now she turned back to give a shrug. “I think here is as good as anywhere, don’t you?”

“I thought we were trying to make the situation better, not worse,” he said, putting the receiver down and watching as she disappeared into the room. He had no idea what she meant by this, his mind now a whirl of conflicting hopes and fears. He did the only thing he could do, and hurried after her into the living room, finding her sitting in the armchair. 

“Julia,” he said, sitting down opposite her on the sofa. “Come on, now – what is this about?”

She leant her head against the side of the chair, and kicked off her shoes. “Wouldn’t it be simpler?” she said. “And we can’t make the situation worse: I’ve already lost my flat and they’ll probably merely be terribly polite to me at work on Monday as they ask me to leave. So, I don’t see any reason not to be here.”

“Julia,” said Edward again, and then had no idea what to say.

She got up and crossed over to sit beside him on the sofa, and he wondered if she’d calculated the act; choosing the chair first because then he’d take the sofa and give her that opportunity.

“Look,” she said, putting a hand to his jacket. “You like me, don’t you? I think you do – I think Rudy was right about that if nothing else. So why shouldn’t I stay? Why should we have to – to ration out happiness, like everything else? It isn’t actually something you can put in a cupboard and bring out later when you need it.”

He laughed, not having expected that, and it was true – and he did like her. Oh, God, he thought, he _did_. But it had been such a strange day and he wasn’t convinced she was altogether herself. He avoided her gaze and tried gently to remove her hand from his jacket, but she only caught hold of his it instead, her fingers closing tightly around his. 

“I’m not going to argue with you,” he said softly, trying to find something to say to defuse the situation. “It doesn’t necessarily follow that this is a good idea, though.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter what it is,” said Julia. “None of it makes a difference now, don’t you see? Why not let everything they say be true, if we’re going to pay for it anyway?”

Edward closed his eyes. It would have been all too easy to agree – but the air of quiet desperation with which she said it was not complimentary. He didn’t pull away, still struggling to think of something he could do before he ruined everything by taking advantage of her or hurting her with a blunt refusal. “All right,” he said, and could feel some of the tension ease out of her. “I promise I won’t make you go anywhere else tonight.” He couldn’t resist pushing his luck further, though, and before letting go, leaned in and kissed her, the way he’d wanted to all day.

He drew back with a smile. “And since you’re staying, would you like a drink?”

“I don’t know,” she said, and then shook herself. “Yes. Yes, I suppose I should.”

Edward had to look down again. No, he thought with painful amusement as he got up and crossed to the sideboard to pour them both a drink, none of this was flattering. He passed hers over and then excused himself, telling her he had one or two things he had to see to. She nodded, without much interest, and he left the room.

First, he went upstairs to check that the spare bedroom was ready. He had a lady by the name of Mrs Crosbie who came in every other day to ‘do’ for him, who insisted on keeping it so. Edward, who tended towards an orderly existence, had assured her he would give her plenty of warning when he was expecting guests, had to admit now that she was right: one never did know when one might have need of it.

He closed the door behind him, crossing the landing to his room, unable to help laughing at himself. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about having Julia here, at least once or twice and now she was and he was trying to avoid her. It was all ridiculously ironic, he thought, sitting down on his bed and glancing at his watch. Best to wait a little longer – give her time to change her mind and get annoyed enough at his disappearance to go right off him. He sighed and reached for his book.

 

He walked back downstairs half an hour later, unsure what to make of Julia’s lack of reaction to his vanishing and wary of what she would say when he did reappear. He slipped into the living room and found her lying on the sofa, apparently asleep, her drink barely touched beside her.

Edward laughed softly to himself and then sat down on the chair opposite, watching her in mingled relief and disappointment. He felt fairly certain she was bound to be furious with him in the morning, and he hated the idea that he might have ruined his only chance with her. But then, he thought, if it really was the only chance, that wasn’t what he wanted, not with Julia. They’d only known each other for a matter of weeks, but the thought of one meaningless night and then having to let her go hurt more than it should. And she’d been in such a state earlier that he couldn’t square it with his conscience if he accepted her offer.

Sleeping, she looked even younger, and he felt suddenly horribly ancient in comparison. There was nothing really wrong with wanting to grab hold of someone for comfort. He’d be a hypocrite if he said there was, since he had been there and done that himself, and that was part of the point. He’d been a similar age, and while it might have helped, it wasn’t enough, and he simply couldn’t be that person for Julia. He put his hands to his head and sighed before leaning back in the chair, leaving her to sleep on for a little while, if she would.

“Julia,” he said, eventually, moving forward again. “Julia.”

She moved, making a small sound almost of protest and then when he repeated her name, opened her eyes and scowled.

“Sorry,” he said. “I thought I’d better wake you.”

She pulled herself up, pressing herself back in against the sofa, not fully awake yet. “Where did you go?” she murmured.

“Just upstairs for a bit,” he said. “The spare room’s ready for you. We’ll talk about everything else in the morning.”

Julia shook herself slightly, and rubbed her eyes. Then she gave a small smile of defeat, and nodded.

 

_Saturday_

Julia was woken in the morning by somebody knocking at the bedroom door. She opened her eyes in annoyance, finding herself lying face down in a strange bed and sat up hastily, surveying her unfamiliar surroundings before remembering everything. Edward hadn’t been joking when he’d said the house needed work. The room had faded dark red curtains and heavy, mahogany furniture that did it no favours. The knocking came again, cutting into her verdict on the décor, and she hastily got out and hunted around for her dressing gown and, tying the belt as she walked, opened the door.

Edward was standing there with a tray. “I brought you some breakfast.”

“Goodness,” said Julia, and gave him a suspicious look. “You did this?”

“Well, no, I didn’t,” said Edward, staying carefully in the doorway, as he handed over the tray, which she immediately carried back over to the bed. It had some toast and one boiled egg, a very welcome sight in her eyes. “Mrs Crosbie was here until a few moments ago. But I am capable of that much at need, thank you.”

Julia bit into the toast and tried not to talk with her mouthful. “Oh, dear. And what does she think about you entertaining unknown lady friends all night? Or is she used to it? Am I only the latest girl you’ve had kicked out of her flat and –”

“I told her I had a friend staying,” he said, leaning back against the door frame, and sounding reproachful. “There’s no reason why she should suspect anything untoward – and no, she isn’t used to it.”

Julia swallowed another bite of toast, coughing over it as she fought not to laugh. “Oh, I think you’ll find she must know. Even if she’s far too well-behaved to go looking in all of the boxes that have suddenly appeared downstairs, I’m fairly sure that I left my coat in the hallway and my shoes and jacket in the living room. And, besides, one can tell.”

Edward raised an eyebrow. “If the guest in the house is a man or a woman?”

“Yes,” said Julia, picking up the teaspoon and hitting the top of her egg with it. “You just can. Don’t look at me like that. It’s true!”

He declined to comment and merely said, “I’d better leave you to finish that. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry,” said Julia, busy with her breakfast. “Considering you didn’t want anything to do with me yesterday when I threw myself at you, I don’t think you’re going to suddenly try and ravish me over my boiled egg.”

He actually gave a start. “Julia!”

“And honestly, it’s a bit late to start being concerned about my reputation. You’ve well and truly compromised me at least twice over. I do think that if it happens again, we should try to enjoy ourselves more, don’t you?”

“Look, Julia,” he began, and then put a hand to his head. “Oh, God.”

She relented a fraction. “Well, I’m sorry, but it is all a bit humiliating. I suppose you thought I was still hysterical. Perhaps I was, but it’s rotten to make a person feel so thoroughly unwanted – and worse, as if I’m a scarlet woman and you’re some sickening paragon of virtue!”

“I’m not a paragon of anything,” said Edward. “If I were, you wouldn’t be here. I would have made sure you went somewhere else. Whatever else may or may not have happened, I just – wanted you here.”

Julia felt a release of a tension around her chest that she hadn’t been aware of until that point, and managed an unsteady smile. “I suppose I might forgive you eventually, then.”

“Thank you,” he said, and his expression brightened. “Anyway, the other thing I should say is that there’s no harm done – or no further harm done. I don’t know what I’d have to do to get my neighbours to notice me – I imagine if I was very loud or painted the house a strange colour, they might, but it’s not like your flat. Even if a curtain might twitch somewhere, no one will say anything. Nobody will know.”

That reassurance made Julia feel inexplicably depressed. “Oh, good,” she said, without much feeling, and kept her attention fixed on eating her boiled egg.

“So,” said Edward, “I’ll get out of your way and let you finish your breakfast in peace. After that, if you want to get dressed and come downstairs, I’ll be waiting. Then we can decide what we’re going to do.”

 

Julia arrived in the hallway, dressed barring the jacket she’d left downstairs yesterday evening. She tried the door of the living room and found Edward in there, waiting for her as promised. Her jacket was draped over the arm of the sofa, and he passed it to her with an apologetic smile.

“Good morning again,” she said, shrugging her jacket on.

Edward sat back down on the arm of the chair. “Yes,” he said, but hardly as if he’d heard her. He looked up. “Now, here’s my suggestion – seeing as I’ve caused you nothing but trouble, I thought I should make today my treat. Whatever you’d like to do – within reason – and maybe you can at least forget about it all for a while.”

Julia had been tensing slightly, waiting for another uncomfortable discussion, so she couldn’t help giving a laugh. “I won’t argue with that. It sounds very nice, although there’s been enough excitement lately – I’d like to do something simple. A walk somewhere – and maybe we could go to the cinema, if you mean it. Or would that be too dull for words?”

“Of course not,” he said.

She looked away from him, because there was something else she must say. She’d been annoyed earlier and not without reason, but she knew she hadn’t been fair to him, either. “Please,” she said. “One thing. Mr Iveson – Edward – I’m sorry about last night. I shouldn’t have put you in that position, whatever I felt, and I apologise.”

“No, no,” he said, standing again and moving forward. “It was an odd day – it doesn’t matter. Neither of us need ever tell anyone, anyway. And I told you – it wasn’t only you.”

Maybe not, thought Julia, or maybe he was merely being a gentleman. She, on the other hand, didn’t have any justification even to herself as to why she’d set out on that course without any consideration of what he wanted. He’d more or less implied that he wouldn’t mind being engaged to her in the middle of dinner, and she’d looked back at him and decided on the spot that she was going to have him. Maybe she would have thought better of it if it hadn’t been for the moment in the car when he’d spoken about his mother and hadn’t seemed any happier than she was, but that wasn’t much of an excuse, either. 

“Julia,” he said, eventually at her silence. “Please, don’t. It’s only – I wasn’t sure how much you were yourself, how much you meant it. It seemed to me – well, that wasn’t how I wanted it to be. You don’t need to apologise.”

She gave him a smile, then. “How about I forgive you for turning me down, you forgive me for putting you in a corner like that, and we both never mention it again? Now, where shall we go for our walk?”

“We’re very close to Primrose Hill,” he said. “It’s right across the road. Will that do?”

Julia nodded. “It sounds nice. I don’t think I’ve ever been, you know. Lead on.”

He opened the door for her and then, out in the hallway, helped her on with her coat, hesitating in position for a moment as he set it on her shoulders, causing her to turn. Nothing might actually have happened last night, but he had kissed her at least; she remembered that perfectly well. She thought, for a dizzying moment of hope and trepidation, that he was going to do it again, but while that turned out to be technically true, it wasn’t the same: he paused to kiss her on the forehead before finding his own coat and ushering her out of the front door.

 

It was a damp, grey day outside, but the park had paths and the drizzle didn’t bother them. It meant Primrose Hill was a little less busy than usual. It wasn’t really all that much of a hill, Julia found, but it was a nice park with plenty of trees and benches, and a decent view out over the city. They walked along together, Julia with her arm in his, and to anyone passing they must seem like another courting couple. And when you came down to it, she thought, maybe they were or would be soon.

In the afternoon, they went to the nearest cinema to see a film that wasn’t terribly good but, as Julia said, at least it was out of the rain, and they could amuse themselves afterwards poking holes in the plot and laughing at the whole thing.

After that, he insisted that he should take her out to dinner properly, and she had to hunt down her one good dress from the boxes. It wasn’t new, but still perfectly presentable, being a long, light blue gown with silver patterns, like snowflakes, pulled in at the waist with silver straps at the top. She came down the stairs to find him in the hallway in his suit and gave him an approving smile.

“This is all very nice,” she said as she reached the bottom stair and he held out her coat for her. “There must be some terrible catch.”

He stood back after placing the coat around her shoulders. “Aside from me having you thrown out of your flat?”

“Oh, yes,” said Julia. “Ssh. I was doing very well at forgetting that. I was only wondering if I should have checked the attics for a wife – or maybe the cupboard?”

Edward shot her a sudden, alarmed look, and she had to bite back amusement: evidently another joke he thought was in bad taste.

“No, of course not,” he said, and then, as they remained there, waiting for the cab to arrive, he coughed. “Julia, I did tell you about my wife, didn’t I? I thought I _had_.”

Julia stared at him, trying to see if he was teasing. He must be, she thought, but she could see no hint of it in his face, and she’d already learned by now to recognise that too-solemn expression he put on sometimes. It looked as if he was serious and, regardless of the fact that she was standing inside with a coat on, she felt suddenly cold and sick – and so very small and foolish.

“I mean, about Caroline,” he said, as if that should make it better. He ran his hand through his hair. “Oh, dear Lord, Julia – I didn’t mean – she’s my ex-wife. I’m sorry; I thought I’d said, but of course I haven’t.”

Julia leant back against the wall, hoping that it wasn’t obvious how shaken she’d been; rather as if someone had tried to rob her of something. “Your ex-wife?”

“Caroline,” he said again. “Yes. I was married once before and it all ended rather – oh, damn, that’s the cab, isn’t it?” He opened the door as the driver made free use of the horn, and held out his hand to her. “Come on. I’ll explain on the way.”

Julia took his hand, following him, still feeling more unsteady than she had any right to. 

Once they were inside the cab, and Edward had double-checked the directions to the restaurant with the driver, he turned back to her and carried on, keeping his voice to an undertone:

“It was all a stupid mistake,” he said. “She was in love with someone else when she married me, but she’d persuaded herself that she wasn’t. Then she saw the other fellow again and the whole thing fell apart. I would have told you, Julia, believe me. I know some people would rather not get involved with a divorcé.”

Julia reached for his hand. “No,” she said. “Oh, no. It doesn’t matter to me – not in the slightest.” She’d never really stopped to think about the issue before, and if she had she might well have been prejudiced, but now she was so relieved that Edward wasn’t married that she didn’t care. Maybe they were still too early along for her to feel this way, but she tightened her fingers around his, fiercely glad that there was nothing that could stop him being hers, as long as he wanted to be.

He shot a wary glance forwards at the driver, and then slipped his arm around her, closing his eyes momentarily in relief.

“Mind,” added Julia, poking him, “if you have any other dark secrets, I think you’d better tell me now.”

Edward laughed quietly, and kissed her head again. “No, that was it, I promise. As for the rest, you already know the worst of me. How about you?”

“I don’t have dark secrets,” said Julia. “I talk too much for that, or hadn’t you noticed?”

 

There was dancing after the meal, which was an unexpected pleasure. Somehow Julia hadn’t pictured Edward dancing, but it turned out that he was perfectly competent, as long as it wasn’t something he didn’t know, at which point he retired to the side, even if she offered to teach him as they went.

But then, in between the dances, they sat in a window seat and talked, as if they hadn’t done enough of that already during the day. There still seemed to be no end of things to say. Julia asked him more about Caroline, which made him uncomfortable until he started on the subject, but she registered now, ruefully, that an awful lot of the talking had been on her part. Edward, to give him his due, was either a very good listener or had the grace to pretend that was he was.

He led her away from the dance floor again now, tugging her by the hand towards the wall, behind a column. He put his hand to her face, stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers, and she edged in nearer. He bent his head down to kiss her and she caught hold of his jacket, gripping the lapels and pulling him closer still, enjoying the satisfactory thrill that went through her.

“Edward,” she said, as he drew back a fraction.

He turned towards her. “Hmm?” he said, but prevented her from saying anything by kissing her once more.

“Edward,” Julia said again, breathlessly, when she got the chance, though she didn’t let go of him – she couldn’t let go of him. “I’ve been meaning to ask – are you still going to make me stay somewhere else tonight?”

Edward shook his head. “Not if you don’t want to.”

“In that case,” she said, giving him an odd little smile, “please – take me home.”

 

_Sunday_

Julia opened her eyes with a start, taking a moment to recollect where she was. Second unfamiliar room in two days, she thought, amused at herself. She turned over slowly – there was no need to do anything just yet, no need to get up or go anywhere – and looked at Edward, who stirred at her movements, but didn’t wake.

She smiled to herself, and pretended that she could stay here for always now: that she didn’t have to go to a poky, crowded office on Monday and type up dull notes about watermarks and paper thicknesses; that she didn’t have a damp attic bed-sit awaiting her afterwards; and that she wasn’t alone any more, she had Edward. She nearly fell back to sleep at that comforting idea, before it turned around in her head and came back to bite her. It had been bad enough on Friday, having to move out of her flat, having to go on with that tiresome job, there being no one she could call on. After this weekend, how much worse was it going to be? She sat up in alarm, putting her hand to her mouth.

Edward opened his eyes beside her; his first reaction a frown at being so rudely woken but as he registered Julia’s presence, his expression lightened into a smile. 

“Oh, God,” said Julia, still panicking, even more so at that. They couldn’t go onwards from here, because where was there that wasn’t too much, too soon? And how could they go backwards, waiting for the right moment, pretending that they hadn’t been this foolish? But that was all she’d said to him on the Friday, all she’d asked – to chase away the unhappiness while they had the chance. Well, they’d done that, and it was a terrible plan, because now she only wanted more.

Edward propped himself up by his elbows, not yet fully awake, his gaze clouded with confusion, but already alarmed by her behaviour.

“Oh, how _could_ we have been so stupid?” she said, and dragged herself out of the bed, fleeing for the spare room before she spoiled everything by putting her head down and crying right there beside him.

 

“Julia,” Edward said from the other side of the door, knocking on it tentatively.

She pulled herself up from where she’d been lying at an angle across the covers, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and sniffing – she’d exhausted the only hanky she had with her – before tugging her dressing gown closer. “Yes?”

Edward pushed the door open slightly, and put his head in. “Truce? I’ve got toast and tea in my room as a peace offering, if you’d like.”

Julia choked back a laugh that threatened to start her tears again, and nodded. “Thank you.” 

“I’ve lit the fire in there,” he said. “Come on – you must be freezing. You should have at least got under the covers.”

Julia thought about it, and realised that she was. It hadn’t seemed to register while she was busy indulging in a fit of despair. She followed him across the landing, and was grateful to sit down beside the small fire. She looked at the tray on the floor between them, and automatically set about pouring the tea and milk into the two cups.

“There’s jam,” said Edward. “Bramble jelly, from my cousin Amy.”

Julia took a sip of tea. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“If that’s how you felt,” he said, with an awkward shrug. “Luckily for you, I don’t withhold conserves from guests as punishment – unlike some people.”

She raised an eyebrow, but merely set about eating some of the toast, and, again, she thought, it was too nice, too cosy, like some sort of mockery of the life she couldn’t quite have – or could maybe have one day if she was really patient, if Edward wasn’t already fed up with her behaviour. _She_ would be, she thought, her cheeks heating slightly at the shame.

Edward let her eat her toast, but eventually, he got up and walked over to sit on the bed, fiddling with his watch on the bedside cabinet, but glancing back at her. “Julia, please – what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, hastily, swallowing her last mouthful, and licking jam and margarine from her fingers. “It wasn’t you or anything. Yesterday was very nice – all of it.” 

Edward watched her as she stood and brushed crumbs away from her pink dressing gown. “But if it’s not that – what is it?”

She walked to the door, and then turned back, sitting beside him, with a sigh. “Can’t you see how stupid we’ve been? What did you think, that we could be here together, and then it wouldn’t matter when it all came to a stop? I was _fine_ with it all on Friday. I’d forgotten how anything else could feel –”

“Julia,” said Edward. “I don’t think you were fine on Friday.”

She shrugged. “Oh, well, maybe not. But I could pick myself back up, stick my chin out and say, ‘well, that’s life’ – and now I can’t. I can’t bear it. Maybe it’s all right for you –”

“Julia,” he said again, slipping his arm around her waist and pulling her back against him. She could feel him laughing, though he tried to stifle it. “Julia, really – is that what this is about?”

She nodded. “I know. I’m sorry. And I’ll go, don’t worry – I’ll take myself and my boxes right out of your way and you can have a good old laugh at –”

“Julia!” Edward kissed her head. “I’m not laughing at you – well, not very much. I’m relieved. What did you imagine I thought when you woke up, said ‘Oh, God’ at the sight of me and then ran for the hills?”

She wanted to argue that it must have been obvious what had upset her, but saw his point far too clearly. She let herself lean back against him, and now she was trying not to laugh. “Oh. Well, I didn’t think.”

“And,” he added, kissing her hair next, and tightening his hold on her, “you still aren’t thinking straight, you know. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

She pulled a face. “We skipped too many steps. Now we have to go back a few moves, don’t we?”

“Maybe,” said Edward, “although I’m not sure there’s a rigid instruction manual for these things, you know. Now, never mind all these things you don’t want to do – what _do_ you want? Honestly.”

Julia closed her eyes. “I’m clearly not very reliable this morning, mind. Remember that. It’s probably all temporary insanity, nothing more.”

“Understood,” said Edward, moving his head down further and kissing her cheek.

She took a deep breath. “I’d like to stay here with you. And I’d like, on Monday, to go into work and resign before they can sadly tell me that I’m unsuitable and let me go. But, of course – I can’t.”

“Shh,” he said, now kissing her neck. “Julia, darling, there’s no earthly reason why you can’t stay here if you want. We could be scandalous and carry on like this and let the world think what it likes –”

Julia turned her head against him, somewhere between laughter and tears at the idea. “I don’t think we’d pull that off. Not us.”

“No, I suspect not,” said Edward. “But you can go in and resign and while you do that, I can find out about how one buys a special license – and book a register office and we can get married at the first opportunity.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said, suddenly breathless. “You don’t want to do that – and what would everyone say?”

Edward let go of her, much to her disappointment. “Well, we did keep telling everyone we were engaged. Isn’t it the only decent thing for me to do?”

“It’s not sensible,” said Julia. She almost hated herself for saying it. She seemed to have been doing nothing but trying to be sensible ever since her father had died, years ago. “And, no, not unless we were living in the last century.”

“You know that’s not true, or you wouldn’t be here now.” Then he gave a slight nod, accompanied by a sigh. “I suppose you’re right – I shouldn’t even ask. It would be taking advantage of you. But, Julia – do you think I want to be here alone, trying to forget about having to go back to the Foreign Office, and thinking of you being miserable in some squalid little place? I think you had a point about trying to ration out happiness.”

She turned and put her arms around him, instinctively moved simply at being wanted. “But you said yourself, even if that’s true, it doesn’t necessarily make it a good idea. We mustn’t be silly. Just think: I’d lose my deposit on the flat.”

“All right,” he said, his voice muffled as he leant his head against her shoulder. “All right.”

Julia closed her eyes. She had an ingrained fear that people would vanish or die the moment she let them out of her sight, but it wasn’t a rational way to live; she knew that. And yet, she thought, it was how she felt. She held onto him more tightly, not quite steady herself, her fingers in his hair. “Edward,” she said in a whisper. “Don’t let me be sensible this time. If you mean that, tell me to damn the stupid deposit and stay.”

Edward lifted his head again and looked at her, as if evaluating how serious she was. She found herself holding her breath until he kissed her. “Damn the deposit,” he said, a gleam of amusement in his eyes, as he did as she’d asked. “Marry me, then – we’ll work something out between us. Nobody else knows how reckless we’re being.”

“It’s a perfectly business-like marriage of convenience,” she said solemnly, putting on hand to his face, feeling the way his mouth gave a humorous quirk under her fingers. “I need somewhere better to live; you will obviously need a wife to further your career, and then we don’t need to worry about compromising each other again, as apparently we inevitably will.”

He kissed her again, drawing her closer. “An ideal solution,” he said mockingly, but then pulled back slightly to look at her again. “Julia. I don’t think I could feel less business-like about anything –”

She laughed, tears in her eyes at the same time as she closed her arms around his neck, holding onto him tightly. “Well, I said I didn’t want to be sensible.” Possessiveness wasn’t nice, but she felt it again now, rather as she had in the restaurant on Friday evening: she wanted him, in more ways than the obvious, and she was going to have him. It was all too soon, but they both knew that and they’d work it out.

“Don’t make me leave,” she said in his ear, no matter how unfair it was. “Edward, please.”

“How could I?” he said.


	29. My Tomorrows in Your Hands (T, AU 1948: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Lionel Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia thinks the only solution right now for her is to marry someone, and Edward will do nicely. It’s all perfectly straightforward until it isn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU, 1948; Edward Iveson/Julia Graves, Lionel Graves. 
> 
> Prompts: Lemon-Lime Sorbet 2 (public place); Cookies and Cream 19 (serve); White Chocolate 27 (loathing) + Brownie + Chopped Nuts + Gummy Bunnies (also for origfic_bingo square “learning what love is” and Trope Bingo square "poor communication skills") + Malt – Truth or Dare ( _Role-reversal! Julia is the one in a position of power, always being called away to work, and Edward is just "the husband."_ from winebabe), & Birthday Prompt ( _The next time I make you cry, they'll be tears of joy!|_ from shayna611.)
> 
> Notes/warnings: grief, loss, alcohol.

Julia walked through the French windows, and out onto the veranda beyond, away from the party, desperate for some air and a moment alone. She felt as if she might stifle if she remained in here, surrounded by her uncle’s guests. They probably weren’t really all as dreadful as they seemed to her tonight, but every one of them had said the same thing when talking about the loss of the rest of her family: _At least you’re safely home now_ , and then the awkward topic could be swept away, of no more relevance to anyone but Julia. Here she was, back in London, set to inherit a fortune, with everything she could possibly want. Why would they say anything else?

Damn them all, she thought, and her uncle most of all. She wished she’d never asked for his help. He’d done everything he could – he’d almost fallen over himself to make amends for the past, but nothing could stop her loathing him. Except now she couldn’t do so with a good conscience and throwing it all back in his face would be to hurt the one real relative she had left.

She made it outside and leant against the wall, closing her eyes.

“Miss Graves?” said someone from the side of her.

Julia opened her eyes and turned, about ready to hit someone. Why couldn’t they all leave her alone? “Yes?” she said, not bothering to keep from sounding her impatience as she rounded on the insufferable stranger – and realised he wasn’t a stranger after all. She didn’t know how he was here and she didn’t remember seeing him arrive, but it was Mr Iveson, the man who’d told her about her brother’s death and confirmed the reports on the loss of her mother and other brother that day in Berlin.

“I’m sorry,” he said, leaning back slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I thought you might be unwell.”

She folded her arms in against herself. “And you thought you’d watch?”

“No,” he said, shifting a little from one foot to the other. “I wondered if I could help.”

Julia tried to bite back her amusement, but gave up the effort, not really caring. She laughed, sliding slowly down the wall until she was sitting on the paved slabs of the patio. She stole a glance back up at him, standing there, stiff and on edge, evidently unsure whether to stay or go, or take offence. He’d tried to help in Berlin. She wished now that he had, but she’d wound up sending the telegram to her uncle anyway, even after he’d turned back up at her door. “Is that all you ever do? How many damsels in distress do you get a week?”

“I thought you might be ill, but I can see I was mistaken – I shall go,” he said, taking a step back. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

Julia took hold of herself and hastily got back to her feet. Mr Iveson was the one person in this room who had any idea what it had been like that day and she’d much rather talk to him than any of the others. “No, no, I’m sorry. I wasn’t enjoying the party much, that’s all. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I’m glad to see you again. I’ve thought often since that I don’t know if I even thanked you last time we met. I just wasn’t taking anything in.” She waved a hand. “Well, I’m sure you can imagine. But I did appreciate you taking the trouble to come back and see if I was all right.”

“It was only the decent thing to do,” said Edward, his gaze straying past her. He put his hands into his jacket pockets. “I told you at the time – I wouldn’t be able to face my mother or my aunt again if I hadn’t. How are you now? At least a little more yourself, I trust?”

She put a hand to her mouth for a moment, blinking away tears. “I would be fine, or as much as I’ll ever be, if I could get away from here.”

Edward raised his eyebrows and then leant against the wall as he watched her. “Ah. You did say your uncle might be difficult.”

“And you asked what else did I have to lose,” said Julia. “It turns out that was a very good question.” 

“In my defence, I did offer you an alternative.”

She smiled. “Yes, your aunt. I remember. I didn’t mean to sound as if I was blaming you. It was my choice – and I shouldn’t have said that, anyway.”

“If you don’t like it here, you can leave, you know,” said Edward. “Can’t you?”

Julia nodded. “Of course I could. I replied to several job advertisements. I even got offered one as a secretary. But when I tried to broach the subject with Uncle Lionel, he was perfectly reasonable about it – but he looked so hurt and then I started thinking about whether or not I really wanted to march off on my own and live on a secretary’s wage in a grubby little flat somewhere, and I found I didn’t.”

She watched him fail to find anything to say and gave a short laugh. “Oh, yes, I know. As problems go, it isn’t one. It’s only – he’s almost fallen over himself trying to help me – trying to put things right. I think, probably, it’s for Father. I think he genuinely was fond of him, and angry with their father for cutting him off. So, what he’s giving me, he says, is only my right. And he’s all I’ve got left now. I find I can’t be as cavalier about that as I would have been before.”

“And so?”

She clenched her fist. “But I still can’t like him. I hate him – loathe him! If he had showed Mother an ounce of sympathy or given her this allowance, she would never have gone – she’d be alive now, and Rudy. Maybe even Christy, too. I know it’s not fair and I don’t think he ever meant for it to happen, but I can’t forget it. And so, I should thank him nicely and say that I’d like to be independent, and go. And I don’t.”

“Well, I hate to state the obvious, but if that’s the way you feel, you should leave for both your sakes. Look, what sort of work would you like to do? I don’t suppose I can find anything, but I could try. I’m back at the Foreign Office now – for the moment – and I hear things.”

Julia smiled to herself. Of course he would think it was that simple. She’d realised it wasn’t when she’d come to the same conclusion herself; that she had to go. Everything that she’d told Mr Iveson was true, but the thing that kept her at her uncle’s house was something she couldn’t give utterance to: she couldn’t bear the idea of being alone any more. She hadn’t been entirely isolated during the war, but nearly so, with her family away and being wary of people finding out that Mother was German, and then she’d got to Berlin too late even to see Rudy one last time. It was better to stay here and have someone she felt something for, even if it was a dangerous mix of loathing and gratitude and resentment. Better anything than to go away and be alone again. The idea made her sick with terror. Other people had suffered far more in the war, of course, but she felt that her pain was bad enough to be going on with.

“Don’t worry,” she said, wishing she hadn’t given into the impulse to tell him so much. That was loneliness, too, and she must hide it more carefully. “I’ve come up with a plan. See in there.” She nodded towards the crowded living room. “My uncle has a dozen friends who are very rich and elderly. I’ve decided I shall marry one of them and that’ll solve everything. I think I could pull it off, don’t you?”

“That isn’t funny.”

Julia hadn’t really thought it was, but it seemed so now, with Mr Iveson suddenly having so grown grave and disapproving. How stuffy he was – anyone would think he was as old as most of her uncle’s banking friends. She wondered if he’d ever done anything wrong in his life. “I’m quite serious. It seems the only way. I’m very mercenary.”

“I would have thought,” said Mr Iveson distantly, and giving her a faintly amused, almost disdainful look, “that it would be a considerable risk. I’d imagine there’s a high probability that they’d be misers. Bad-tempered, too, I shouldn’t wonder – no doubt very suspicious.” He shrugged. “It might not end well.”

Julia looked up at him. “Yes, that is a good point. I’ll have to make sure I pick out a relatively kindly old gentleman, won’t I? And I’m being rude – I haven’t asked how you have been since we met.”

“Well, I’m not planning to marry any elderly gentlemen just now,” he said, and then avoided her question, adding, “Well enough, thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I came here with a friend, and he’ll be wanting to leave, I should think.”

Julia shivered, feeling the cold suddenly, and wanted to cry. When he went she’d have no one left to talk to again and she’d have no one to blame but herself. She hurried after him, and caught his arm at the door. “Mr Iveson, don’t think too badly of me. I’m not – I’m in a strange mood tonight, that’s all. Don’t think me as awful as I sound.”

“I don’t,” he said, his face shadowed by the light behind him. He turned to go, and then looked back again and gave her a smile. “I’d like to see you again, if it doesn’t interfere with your pursuit of some old banker. Saturday, in Green Park about noon, and then we could have lunch?”

Julia nodded, and then said, yes, in case he hadn’t caught the movement. “Why not? And I shall try not to be so horrid, I promise.”

 

“Miss Graves,” said Mr Iveson, rising from the bench he’d been sitting on to greet her. He held out his hand to her and, when she took it, wrapped both of his gloved hands around hers for a moment before releasing her.

Julia gave him a smile and fell into step beside him as they walked along the path. “I’m sorry about last night – I don’t know what I must have sounded like!”

“I still think you should get out and do something,” he said mildly, but shrugged.

Julia was determined to behave properly today. She laughed. “No, honestly, you mustn’t take any notice of the nonsense I was spouting yesterday. I _am_ doing things – I’ve joined about half a dozen committees at least, and I’m Vice Chair of two of them already. I have plenty of useful things to do. It’s only that last night everyone kept talking about Mother and Christy and Rudy and pretending to care when it was obvious that they didn’t – and at times like that, I dive off into ridiculous self-pity. The result you witnessed for yourself.”

Mr Iveson didn’t comment. He merely glanced at her with the slightest of smiles. “Vice chair?” he murmured. “What’s keeping you from seizing full control?”

“Oh, I’m working on it.” She grinned, and then took his arm, feeling that she’d successfully covered her odd behaviour of last night enough to do so. “But you see, I don’t sit around the house hating poor Uncle Lionel – I’m busy raising money and bothering London County Council every other day. You can move onto the next damsel in distress – I’m quite all right.”

He nodded. “And you were only joking about marrying some rich old man, of course?”

Julia tried to evade the question, deflecting it with a laughing, “Well, I might need to keep my options open.”

“Do you mind?” said Mr Iveson, gesturing towards another bench and when she nodded, led her across to sit on it. “I don’t suppose you know about my marriage, do you?”

Julia sat down on the worn wooden slats. She shook her head, unsettled by that revelation, and feeling stupid that it had not occurred to her that he might be married. She’d rather thought he liked her, at least a little, although, of course, she reminded herself, those two things weren’t actually mutually exclusive.

“Well, take it as a warning,” he said. “I married a perfectly nice girl whom I thought I was in love with. I think she probably believed she loved me, or that she would in time. We were both wrong – it all fell apart within three months and I couldn’t – I couldn’t reach Caroline to even try and put things right. She had realised that she had been in love with someone else all along and there we were, finished. Three years later, we got a divorce. Which is to say, marriage is difficult enough even in normal circumstances without rushing into marriage someone you don’t care for, and all for mercenary reasons.”

Julia raised her chin, disliking being lectured by him. Honestly, he sounded as if he was at least sixty. _So_ Victorian, she thought vindictively. “Perhaps it’s better to be practical about it, then,” she said. “I haven’t been married, but I had a love affair of my own in the war. He was a rat. So, I think a pragmatic arrangement is the most sensible –”

“And what then?” said Mr Iveson, keeping his voice low, but becoming even more insufferably prudish and dull. “If you pull it off without it eating away at your self respect – when you’re bored to tears with your elderly husband, or you hate him, too? Or if you fall for someone else? Then you have an affair, and that’s always more sordid than you would like, no matter what anyone says. Believe me, I know.”

Julia stared back at him, a slow anger building and then she thought, with satisfaction at having arrived at the most perfect and illogical revenge possible, she’d damn well marry _him_ instead and that would solve everything. 

“Goodness, Mr Iveson,” she said, also keeping from raising her voice, but making her feelings clear in her steely tone, “don’t tell me you’ve had an _affair_? I can hardly believe it. Or perhaps you mean that you once held hands with a married lady and felt faint from the shock?”

Mr Iveson halted at last and then gazed back at her for a long moment, before he turned his attention to the park in general, a faint flush on his cheeks for a moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to go on at you like that. It’s none of my business.”

“No,” she said, and then leant across to press her hand over his as it rested on his lap. “You needn’t worry. I didn’t mean it. I’m not going to marry any old men of any sort, I promise.”

He laughed. “I was being insufferable, wasn’t I?”

“Rather.”

“Then let me take you to lunch and make it up to you as best I can – my treat.” 

Julia laughed. “We’d best go halves. I suppose I’ve done my fair share of being beastly, both now and at the party.”

Mr Iveson gave her a wider, more undignified smile and got to his feet, holding out his hand to her. She took it, and didn’t let go.

 

Edward glanced at his watch, realising that he was, as he had feared, early again. He walked down the street, away from Lionel Graves’s house. Not for the first time, he asked himself what he was doing, dancing attendance on Julia. And then, also not for the first time, wondered why it was even a question any more. He’d gone back to see her in Berlin, to be sure she was all right, and then when he’d returned to London, it had been only too easy to enquire as to whether or not she was still with her uncle. He’d managed to let the matter rest there, reminding himself that nobody wanted a spectre at the feast and considering that they’d met over her brother’s dead body, how could she regard him in any other light? And then the chance to wangle an invitation to the Graves's house had come his way and he’d grabbed at it. All he was doing, he’d told himself, was finding out how she was, just as he had last year in Berlin. After all, she hadn’t been happy about the idea of getting in touch with her uncle and, since he’d given her the push to do it, he ought to find out if it had worked out for her. Except, despite what she said later, she clearly wasn’t happy at all; she was miserable enough to be threatening wildly to marry any elderly rich man who came her way.

He should have left it there. He didn’t know why it was she wouldn’t simply move out of her uncle’s, but she was only using him to amuse herself, to forget some of her frustrations. He shouldn’t stand for it, but so many other aspects of his life seemed to be quietly eroding away, and, shameful as the admittance was, he’d take whatever she was willing to offer him. It took his mind off everything else.

“Oh, God,” he muttered. He’d made a fool of himself in Berlin and nearly thrown away not just his job, but everything else, too. He was still angry with himself over it, even if it didn’t help. The Foreign Office had taken him back, his secondment to SIS being over, now the war had finally finished, but that was just the polite, official stance, and he’d heard the doors closing above, rather as they had when he was younger, after Caroline had divorced him, only it mattered more now. So, he’d turned his attention to the company his father had left him a controlling interest in – a paper factory – only to find that it hadn’t weathered the war and shortages well. Instead of being able to use that as an alternative, he found himself making arrangements to sell up before it was too late.

And so, as long as Julia was prepared to be seen out with him, whatever her reasons, Edward would be glad for it, because it looked now as if he was going to spend the rest of his life smothered in an office in Whitehall, lost among the lower to middling ranks of the Civil Service. Hardly the worst of fates, of course, but he’d had other ideas once upon a time.

 

Edward knocked at the door, only to have it pulled open by Julia, ready and waiting despite his being early. They were going over to his house, since she’d been asking to see it, promising him advice on decorating and he had no objections. Once he’d driven her over to Chalcot Crescent, he gave her the grand tour, such as it was, and she studied its shortcomings with close attention. He finished by leading her into the kitchen and making them both a cup of tea.

“Thank you,” she said as he handed her the tea in its cup, and then, of the house, “It’s nice. It could do with some redecorating, of course.”

Edward nodded. “I had a few basic things done before I moved back in, but everything else will have to wait for now.”

“Oh?” said Julia, watching him with new interest. She put down her cup, and then hoisted herself up to sit on the worktop beside it. “Short of cash?”

He shrugged. “If it comes to large interior decorating schemes, yes. Not particularly otherwise.”

Julia smiled. “You know that I’m pretty rich now, don’t you?”

Edward turned away, biting back anger at her insinuation. He felt the heat rise in his cheeks and couldn’t look at her. It had only been fair to make that clear, to say; she didn’t have to take the worst possible inference from it. “If that’s what you think of me, then I’d better take you home and not bother you in future.”

“Oh, no!” said Julia. “I thought I should point it out to you, that’s all. It is a useful opportunity, you know.”

He couldn’t think what she meant. “Look, I’m not asking your uncle for money, either.”

“You could probably ask him for advice, though,” she said. “He’d be bound to help if you were going to marry his niece.”

Edward started so violently that he knocked over the nearest object on the worktop with his elbow, and turned to see the salt cellar spilling its contents over the surface. Hastily, he righted it, and swept the salt into his hand.

“Throw it over your shoulder,” advised Julia. “Otherwise it’s a rather ominous omen for us.”

Edward threw it in the sink. “Julia. I don’t find that very funny.”

“Good,” she said. “I’m not joking. I don’t really need to marry a rich old man to get away from my uncle. I just need a decent sort he approves of enough so that he won’t cut me off again and who doesn’t mind marrying me. Uncle Lionel likes you, you know. I quite like you, too.”

Edward had no idea what to say. He supposed, given what she’d said to him on their first meeting, and on the second, he shouldn’t be entirely surprised, but he was. He’d thought she was amusing herself in some way – not that she was trying to get him to marry her. “Look,” he began, and then failed to find any other words. Part of him wanted to say yes – most of him, if he was honest – but it wasn’t a very flattering proposal and even aside from his unwillingness to go through another divorce following another unwise marriage, there were things he hadn’t told her. When he’d thought she was merely flirting with him to cheer herself up, none of that had mattered. The thought of explaining and watching her pretend her offer had been a joke after all made him feel almost queasy.

“Julia,” he said, running a hand through his hair in distraction. “Good God. Don’t be so appalling. I told you before, marriage is a serious matter!”

She leant forward, putting a hand to his arm and letting it stay there, although not catching hold of him. He didn’t move. “Please, Edward, only listen for a moment.” The casual note had vanished from her voice; she sounded entirely in earnest. “I’ve been wanting to suggest it to you for a while and I didn’t know how. I’m serious. I like you, I really do. You understand what happened in Berlin, and I know you won’t try to stop me being on all my committees and things – and I’m not shallow. I do care about them, and you probably know useful people, too. We can help each other.”

“Julia,” he said, his mouth dry, and still at a loss. All he wanted was to say yes, but nothing she had yet proposed gave him any confidence that it could be any other than a disaster if he did. “Look, Julia –”

She faced him. “My uncle knows that we met in Berlin, so it won’t seem as sudden as it is. And I’m not as heartless as I might sound. I think you like me already and I don’t see why I shouldn’t get very fond of you in time. But I don’t want to wait for us to do this properly. I want to try now, so I won’t murder my uncle and we can save that company of yours, too, perhaps. And I would never run away from you like Caroline. If I make a promise, I keep it.”

“Julia,” he said, making an effort to pull himself back together. It was a dreadful proposal in so many ways that he didn’t know where to start, and at the same time, he couldn’t help being aware that it would have been so tantalisingly easy to pull her off the worktop and into his arms in response. “Stop this. You can’t mean it, and it’s a terrible idea, even if you did.”

She bit her lip. “Don’t you like me after all?”

Edward reached for her hand. “Oh, God, I would marry you tomorrow, if that was all that mattered. Which is only one of the reasons why this isn’t funny and it isn’t fair. I know plenty of people have made marriages of necessity before, but I draw the line at you talking about marriage as if it’s some sort of sticking plaster!”

“No, of course it isn’t,” said Julia. “But, as it happens, marrying you would solve all of my current difficulties. I couldn’t make a marriage of pure convenience; it wouldn’t do. I’m too tired of being alone. I had a feeling you were, too.”

Edward let go of her hand, itching again to take hold of her properly, but he looked away instead. “Yes, well, you may think that, but I don’t think you understand what sort of bargain you’d actually be getting in me.”

“Gosh, you don’t have any dark deeds to confess, do you?” said Julia. “I don’t believe it.”

Edward leant against the worktop beside her. “What do you think I am? I should imagine I’ve got at least the average sort of collection of skeletons in the closet. And don’t laugh, Julia, this isn’t easy. It’s only that, between our meeting in Berlin and again here in London, I’ve been spending an awful lot of that time convalescing.”

“You’ve been ill?” she said. She wasn’t laughing in the least now. “What happened? Why didn’t you tell me before? I _did_ ask, you know.”

He shrugged. “I’d rather not have told you. I made an idiot of myself out in Berlin. The massacre at Yorckstrasse – well, you know, obviously – and I was trying to get my particular project done and finish that blasted secondment, and I worked myself into it, I suppose.”

“Into what?”

He made himself look across at her, thinking suddenly and uncomfortably of the time he’d gone back to see her in Berlin and she hadn’t even been able to remember his name. He understood why, of course, but he knew now that he hadn’t entirely been himself then, either, and her blank look had cut right through him.

“I believe they call it a state of nervous exhaustion.” He gave a wry twist of his mouth. “So, I was sent back home, being a liability to the service in that condition. I’ve been all right since the doctor cleared me, more or less, but I don’t think the Foreign Office quite know what to do with me, either. I think they hope I’ll just go away. Which was what I was hoping to do, if that company hadn’t been in trouble. So, you see, that’s what you’d be getting.”

“ _Edward_ ,” said Julia, screwing up her face a little in sympathy. “We’ll be about even then, and we’ll work things out. I can leave my uncle, you can leave the Foreign Office. There you are, you see.” She leant over and pulled him in nearer to the worktop, so that she could kiss him, first on the cheek, and then nervously, at an awkward angle, on the mouth before drawing back, slightly flushed.

He laughed. Whatever Julia was or wasn’t, and no matter how terrible a proposition this might be, she wasn’t a practised flirt, that much was clear. He held out his hands to her and, when she took them, he pulled her off the worktop, so that she was standing in front of him, in his grasp.

“All right, then,” he said. “One last thing, though – you say you want this to eventually work its way into something more, and I think we ought – we ought to be sure that it’s possible.” He gave a grin as she looked up at him in sudden uncertainty, and stroked her cheek with his fingers before bending in slightly to kiss her again. She closed her eyes and caught at his lapels. Something in him gave at her nearness, her response, and he kissed her again more deeply and she only held onto him tighter still. Their combined loneliness was almost something tangible between them, pulling them closer. Edward wasn’t sure how to let go, but Julia looked away suddenly, and so he stepped back, releasing her.

Julia put her hand to her mouth and then said, eventually, “Yes, well, I should think we’ll be all right on that front, don’t you?”

“Probably,” said Edward, grinning. “Julia – one other thing. If I’d said no, what would you have done?”

“You’re my last hope, didn’t I tell you?” she said, and then straightened his jacket, not looking at him. “I knew you wouldn’t be so unkind as to turn me down.”

 

“Ah, Iveson,” said Lionel Graves, rising as Edward entered his office in the privileged upper reaches of the bank. “You got my message.”

Edward shook his hand. “I did. And you no doubt want to have words with me about marrying Julia.” He hesitated, but decided to be the one to say it. After all, Julia would no doubt have already raised the subject, knowing her. “I have to ask – she hasn’t been saying something about money, has she? Because I neither want nor need it from you, or from her. Of course, anything you want to arrange for her is a different matter – but that’s between the two of you.”

“No, no,” Lionel said, lowering himself back down into his chair. “Do sit down, Iveson, and stop being nonsensical. That’s not it – although she did say you might want advice. You could have asked me directly, you know. You’re not some stranger. I knew your father – not well, but he and Harold always kept in touch.”

Edward’s mouth twitched into the slightest of smiles. “Sorry, sir. And, yes, I would appreciate some advice on a business matter, if you didn’t mind. My father left me a controlling interest in a paper manufacturing company, and I’m not sure whether to sell out at this point, or invest – I’ve got a proposal and it seems sound enough, but it’s not really my field.”

“Yes, of course,” said Lionel. “I’ll arrange a time to go through it with you – or maybe take a look now and tell you who should get onto. But it’s Julia I wanted to talk to you about. Between you and me, I was relieved to hear the news.”

Edward raised his eyebrows, but waited for the older man to continue. He rather suspected that Julia might well count this conversation as fraternising with the enemy, but he had always believed that life was more complex than that.

“She’s not happy,” said Lionel, rearranging the papers on his desk with a cough. “I know that sounds damned stupid, given the circumstances, but she’s not. She goes about the house as if nothing’s wrong and bustles off to this, that or the other – committees and good works, you know the sort of nonsense, I’m sure you’ll soon put it out of her head –”

Edward had to carefully hide amusement. _Yes, definitely fraternising with the enemy_ , he decided.

“But she’s not right – has all these odd moods, and goes quiet for days, and I’ve never caught her crying, not since that first week. And what can I do? I never saw any of Harold’s children much – never cared for Hanne, you see, not for Harold at least – and there it is. You think so, too?”

Faced with a blunt question, Edward was unwilling to lie. “I think you’re right,” he murmured. “She’s not happy. But, as you say, how could she be? It’s not been much over a year yet.”

“Yes,” said Lionel, as if not really listening. “So, there we are. You’re a sensible fellow, or you ought to be if you’re anything like your father, or your mother for that matter. You’ll be of more help than I will. So, no, I don’t mind the hurry. Besides, she’s of age and she wouldn’t thank me for interfering.”

Edward had to smile. “But I feel sure you’d get rid of me soon enough if you thought I was after her money,” he said, deflecting the conversation from the awkward turn it had taken. Julia would not approve of Edward discussing her like this, and certainly not with her uncle.

“Oh, well, if you weren’t on the level, yes,” said Lionel. “As far as I could, anyhow – can’t stop someone from running off with someone, not without locking them up.”

“Well, thank you,” said Edward. He pulled out the folder he’d brought with him. “Shall I give you a quick explanation of my situation with Harcourt’s – the company, I mean – or see you again when it’s more convenient?”

Lionel glanced at his watch with a brief harrumph, and then held out a stubby hand for the papers. “Leave it with me, I’ll give it a glance and pass you onto someone who’ll be able to help you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Edward, getting up. “I appreciate it. And I meant what I said – whatever you may or may not settle with Julia is none of my business, but I don’t want to profit by the match by so much as a penny. I’m sure that sounds ridiculous to you, but I had the impression Julia had other ideas, so I must insist.”

Lionel shrugged. “If you say so. You’ll take my advice, though, eh?”

“I’d be a fool not to,” said Edward. “And, as you said, I hardly needed to be married to Julia to ask.”

Lionel narrowed his gaze. “I heard, you know, that your grandfather could be odd at times,” he said. “But, understood – if I give Julia a wedding gift of that sort, it’ll be set up for her sole use and not yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Edward, managing to refrain from asking which grandfather, although he suspected strongly that Lionel Graves must mean his maternal grandfather, who had been an academic, but from what he recalled, it would have been a fair comment on either of them. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so insistent on it – almost as if you don’t trust yourself. Not got some expensive habit my niece needs to know about?”

“Nothing like that,” Edward said. “I merely think that I wouldn’t be able to afford the cost, not in the end.” 

 

The plan was simple, Julia tried to remind herself in the midst of all the wedding preparations. She had insisted on the quietest wedding possible, but nobody around her seemed to understand the meaning of the word, and she was nonetheless caught up in plans and dress fittings and invitations, although at least the necessity to marry in a register office because of Edward’s divorce had helped limit everyone else’s ideas. If she could marry Edward as privately as possible, that would be one thing. This felt far more like perpetrating a fraud in public. But the plan was still as simple as it had ever been, and she must hold onto that: she would marry Edward and get away from her uncle, she could continue with her current projects and he could do whatever it was a person did if they sat on the board of a company, and eventually, she would no doubt come to love him too.

Which was why she was currently avoiding him as much as possible, not wanting to give rise to too many opportunities to repeat a moment like the one in his kitchen when he’d accepted her proposal. She'd been relieved that her plan had worked, and she’d been feeling sorry for him, after what he’d told her, that was all. Poor Edward, she thought again, inconsequently.

Naturally, she planned for there to be intimacy in their marriage; that was part of the point of the arrangement, but Julia knew perfectly well that didn’t have to involve love. She might not have behaved terribly well over all this, but at least she’d been honest, and she wouldn’t have him believe things that weren’t true through any more such carelessness. The idea panicked her more than she could explain.

“Julia,” said Edward, coming into the room unexpectedly. “I wanted to see you, but I hear you’re too busy.” He glanced around at the papers all over the coffee table in front of her, the material draped over the chair. “Can I help?”

She thrust a sheet containing a list of potential guests towards him. “Well, you could go and tell my uncle that we can’t have half these guests, and if he can remove all these I don’t even know, I’m sure it will be fine. If you do it, he might actually listen and oblige. He nods along to what I say, and then tells me that some fourth cousins would be highly offended if I didn’t invite them.”

“Why don’t you let him?” said Edward. “After all, then you could see if you have any relatives you like better, and all with the perfect safeguard of being obliged to leave with me before the end of the day!”

Julia leant forward and pushed the paper into his hand. “Well, at least a third of them need to go. Or otherwise you’ll need to even up your side, and then where will we be? I keep telling him to remember that it’s a civil service and it has to be kept quiet, but he says all the more reason for a large reception afterwards.”

“It’s his gift to you,” Edward pointed out.

Julia leant back in the chair. “Trust him to give me something I don’t want!”

“Look, I needed to speak to you,” said Edward. “Only for a moment.”

Julia frowned down at her papers, not pushing back her hair when it fell forward over her face. She liked being with Edward, but it was easy to forget where to draw the line. She needed to keep things clearer in her mind before she let him confuse her. “Well, I really am awfully busy – please go and reason with him. Maybe my second cousins, but I don’t want so many strangers there. Please, Edward.”

“Yes, I’ll go and speak to him,” said Edward, rising again and heading for the door. “You needn’t worry.”

Julia nodded, knowing he would manage it. Edward always came across first as so reserved and polite, even a little awkward, but it was almost all a disguise, and he had no problems in getting his own way when he wanted it. That worried her too – perhaps he’d guessed her intentions all along and his motives were only mercenary after all? She didn’t, she found, with a chill in her heart, want to risk more closeness to find that he had been the one who had been lying, not her.

 

They hadn’t even finished the honeymoon and yet everything seemed to have gone terribly wrong already. Julia concentrated on spreading the margarine on her toast rather than look up at Edward as they continued to sit in the hotel’s elegantly furnished dining room, eating their breakfast in silence. What else did she expect for making such a stupid and selfish proposal? She bit into her toast, adding darkly to herself that Edward was nearly as much to blame as she was, because who accepted that kind of proposal anyway?

The first night, Edward had settled himself on the couch in their room and Julia had been too taken aback and too tired from the wedding, its preparations, and the journey down into Devon to object. She had kept waking uneasily in the night and every time she did, she could hear him shifting about on the couch, clearly not comfortable at all. The whole thing had been like something out of a farce, and not what she had had in mind at all.

It had taken her all day to try and find something to say to him to avoid a succession of such nights. She had thought she had already made it clear that sharing a love life of some kind was supposed to be part of the bargain, but maybe she hadn’t. Or maybe he’d changed his mind, put off by her earlier behaviour and drawn on by the lure of the money. Perhaps it had always been about the money. She had been afraid of saying something only to find out that that was true, that he didn’t care about her, or even think her desirable. She had been almost sure that he did like her a great deal, but the risk of asking suddenly dismayed her far more than she would have expected.

She’d caught him before they went down to dinner in the end, and tried to explain, and wound up kissing him, after which had followed a much nicer evening than the previous one, which had wound up becoming the cause of the next problem. Julia had planned all this out: Edward was someone she liked, they could benefit each other by marrying, he already cared for her to some degree, and she soon would for him. It would be a safe, pragmatic arrangement – a slow progression to a foregone conclusion. But suddenly, actually in his arms, all the lies she’d told herself and him became painfully obvious, leaving her no protection from the undeniable, dreadful truth: that she was already falling in love with him and probably had been even before she’d proposed. She hadn’t wanted a convenient husband, not as such – she’d wanted Edward.

Julia hadn’t bargained for allowing herself those emotions, for tasting any sort of real happiness, even briefly, and the next morning, Edward had found her crying uncontrollably in the bathroom and unable to explain herself. She couldn’t say it, she thought, flicking a glance up at him again now. She couldn’t possibly say it.

Understandably, though, Edward had treated her with extreme wariness for the rest of the day, leaving her to read a book that she couldn’t take in a word of, while he went off for a walk. She’d remembered, halfway through the afternoon, what he’d told her about Caroline, and knew she had to try and explain, but she failed, falling upon any excuse he gave her not to talk about anything meaningful as they ate dinner, surrounded by what suddenly seemed like a whole host of happy couples.

She’d decided instead that when they got upstairs again, she would simply kiss him and make it plain in every way she could that her tears had had nothing to do with him, and were only her own stupidity, but he had disappeared off to the bar and hadn’t reappeared. She’d fallen asleep, but he woke her briefly, fumbling around in the dark, and then again later, apparently being very ill in the bathroom. She had only thought in drowsy annoyance that it served him right before she drifted off again.

This morning, she’d had to wake him before they missed breakfast altogether, and now here they were, Julia wondering how to retrieve anything from this sorry mess, and Edward probably still feeling too rotten to bother about such things, as he stared down at his breakfast with apparent distaste. 

“It will help if you eat it, you know,” she said suddenly, her concern surfacing despite everything, as did her previously errant sense of humour, but she tried not to let that show. “You were very ill last night. How much _did_ you drink?”

He glanced up slowly, and then put a hand to his head. “Oh, God, I’m sorry, Julia. And I don’t know – not so much. There was an unwise cocktail or so. It won’t happen again.”

“It needn’t have happened at all,” said Julia. “I’m sorry about yesterday, too, but I was trying to say that it wasn’t _you_. I was –” She stopped, her heart thudding and feeling almost light-headed at the risk of telling him. Maybe he wouldn’t really take it in, if she did. “It was so silly. You see, the truth is – the dreadful truth is, that everything I told you –”

Edward held up a hand. “Can’t this at least wait till I’ve finished my coffee?”

“I lied,” said Julia, not feeling it was possible to halt now she’d finally got started. “To myself too, and that was what I finally understood. I lied about everything. I didn’t want a convenient marriage, certainly not with just anyone –”

“Julia –”

She found it was possible to stop after all, and flushed, feeling the heat in her cheeks. “Yes, I’m sorry,” she said, and finished her toast and marmalade, watching his progress until he’d drunk his coffee and at least made a start on his eggs, before she tried again. “I think I must have been already beginning to fall in love with you even when I asked.”

Edward lowered his fork back down onto the plate and stared at her, his hangover temporarily forgotten.

“Yes, I know,” said Julia. “It’s a bit late to confess now I’ve married you, isn’t it?”

Edward put his hand up to his head again, rubbing his temple, before eventually, he said, “I’m not going to pretend to follow any of this, but _what did you just say_?”

Her heart was thudding, dizzying her so she had to pause before she could answer. “I’m so very sorry, but I seem to be at least halfway in love with you.” She pushed her plate away. “Maybe more.”

Edward looked back at her for a long moment, and then ate a couple of mouthfuls more of his breakfast, before rising from his chair without a word and holding out his hand to her.

She wasn’t sure what sort of response that was, but she cast her napkin back on the table and let him pull her up and lead her towards the door. Several of the other hotel guests glanced over at them, curious at the abrupt departure.

“Excuse me,” said Edward, as he navigated his way past a couple walking in the opposite direction, then opened the door for Julia, and took her hand again as they went up two flights of stairs.

Julia was beginning to feel nervous, although his expression was impossible to read and there was nothing ungentle in his hold on her. “Please don’t be too angry with me,” she said, as they stood out in the corridor while he fiddled with the lock, cursing under his breath at his clumsiness. “I know it’s bound to confuse things, but I honestly didn’t realise myself.”

Edward ushered her in, and pushed the door shut behind her. “Julia,” he said, “will you stop apologising? It’s not dreadful, it’s miraculous.”

“No, no, you don’t understand,” said Julia, and then stopped, not quite able to articulate why it was so awful, except it wasn’t the bargain she had made. But she wasn’t supposed to be happy about anything, not yet – and there was some indistinct but intense conviction within her that for her to love anyone was to curse one or both of them, and the idea of losing Edward suddenly distressed her more than she could say. She had to wipe away another tear. She was being silly, no doubt, but she was tired, having had three disturbed nights in a row – well, at least four or five, given that she’d not slept well immediately before the wedding.

In the end, she gave up, and swallowed back more unwanted tears. “It hurts. Being happy. It just hurts too much, and I can’t.”

Edward looked back at her, blankly uncomprehending, until suddenly his face softened and he moved in nearer. “Julia,” he said, and put his arms around her. He kissed her head, and guided her over to the bed, pulling her down to sit beside him. “I don’t understand, or at least, not all of it – not now.” He frowned again, and then put his arm around her tightly. “But a little, yes. You’re still grieving – of course you are. How could you not be?”

“Best not to show it,” said Julia, and found she was trembling. “I’m not the only one, why I should I make a fuss?”

Edward kissed her cheek. “This isn’t in public, this is just us. Don’t ask me why, because you make appalling proposals, cry yourself sick after I’ve made love to you, and then decide to say you love me in the middle of breakfast in the hotel dining hall when I’m hung-over, but I love you too. Or I’m at least three-quarters of the way there.”

Julia felt oddly warmed by the unromantic declaration, and reached for his hand, curling her fingers around his. “Well, being hung-over is your fault, not mine.”

“Oh, I know, and I’m regretting it, believe me,” said Edward. “Come on, lie down a moment.”

Julia turned sharply in his hold. “Now?”

“No, not like that,” he said, giving a brief smile. “Sadly.”

Julia kicked off her shoes and tried not to giggle, as she suspected that she might cry again if she did, and that would only be tiresome. “Oh, yes, you have a headache. Poor Edward!” She did as he said and lay down on the bed, letting him hold her. 

“I haven’t been through what you have,” he said, “but I have lost both parents – and then Caroline – other people in the war. I do understand a little.”

Julia stared up at the ceiling, but shifted nearer to him. “I’ve been wishing I was dead ever since,” she said, at last. “I didn’t try or anything, I don’t mean that, but I wanted to be dead. I’d held on for them, all that time, but it was too late.” She closed her eyes. “I should be dead, not here, being –” She gave up on finding the right word.

“Alive?” said Edward. “Life is awkward. Always moving on – feels like a betrayal.”

“Yes.”

“Well,” Edward said, “I think perhaps we could simply enjoy our honeymoon. Worry about the rest when we leave here.”

Julia gave a small smile. “Yes, I think that might be possible. I might be able to manage that.”

“Good,” he said, and she thought, relaxing, how nice his voice was when he spoke softly like that. There were rather a lot of nice things about Edward, and she idly let her mind drift into cataloguing them silently.

Edward stroked her hair. “Nothing’s changed, you know. This bargain is as it was – and the rest we sort out later, as you said before. In the meantime, let’s enjoy this holiday. Yes?”

Julia nodded, and felt the weight of the mattress shift as he lay back down and then, presently, his hold on her grew lax and she heard his breathing even out and knew he’d dozed off. _Oh dear_ , she thought, putting hand to her mouth to stifle laughter, lying there still; too tired to move but as yet too comfortably happy for that one isolated moment to allow herself to let it go by falling asleep.

For the first time since the wedding ceremony, she felt that it might work out.


	30. By My Side (PG, AU: Edward Iveson/Julia Graves)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julia’s worried that Edward’s getting tired of playing second fiddle to his wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuation of the AU begun in _My Tomorrows In Your Hands_ , but some years later (& fitting the original prompt more closely). Edward Iveson/Julia Graves.
> 
> Prompts: Peach 8 (all in a day’s work), Cookies and Cream 2 (fall) + Chopped Nuts + Malt (Truth or Dare prompt _Role-reversal! Julia is the one in a position of power, always being called away to work, and Edward is just "the husband."_ from winebabe) + Gummy Bunnies (also for origfic_bingo square “drugs/intoxication” and Trope Bingo square “power dynamics.”)
> 
> Notes/warning: alcohol.

The civic function was about as enthralling as most such events were. Julia forced herself to keep her attention on what Councillor Gulliford was trying to tell her. Since it seemed to be something about how he had improved the water supply to his borough, it might even be useful, although she gravely doubted it as he droned on. _Pompous bore_ , she thought, and let her gaze stray across the crowd, instinctively looking to share a glance with Edward, only to be reminded again that he wasn’t there.

At that point, Julia gave up the effort of concentrating on the Councillor’s words and excused herself with a polite smile and the claim that she had to find someone else before they left. Of course, she had been to many functions, receptions, parties and the like since winning the by-election two years ago, and before in the effort to win it, and plenty of those had been without Edward, but still she felt his absence. There was a certain amount of performance involved in the process and, for Julia, Edward was her most important audience.

Tonight, however, he had said he would be here, and it wasn’t like Edward to fail to turn up, not without some word. She had come to rely on that, too and she felt wrong-footed again. He had told her that he had to attend a board meeting, but that he would be back in time to accompany her. She had given up on waiting for him and left for the function an hour ago, and he still hadn’t appeared.

It would be traffic, of course, she told herself. It was silly to think anything else. But she couldn’t help uncomfortably wondering if he had grown tired of playing second fiddle to his wife; if he could truly be happy in marrying a woman who had plainly told him that she would have married just about anyone to change her situation at the time. He’d been oddly quiet this past week or so, when she had seen him in passing, and she wished now that she’d stopped to ask why. It was, after all, no good expecting Edward to explain unless she pushed him to it.

“Mrs Iveson,” said Amyas Harding, President of the Board of Trade, arriving at her elbow with a glass for her. “I saw you were empty-handed. And without your faithful shadow, too, I see. I trust Iveson is well?”

Julia gave a smile, but didn’t take the glass. “Yes, of course.”

“Oh, is there trouble?” he queried, an amused light in his eyes. “I don’t suppose it’s enough for me to steal you away from him?”

Julia’s smile grew. “Impossible, Mr Harding!” she said. “In fact, the reverse – I believe it’s about time that I stole away and rejoined him.”

 

Julia climbed out of the taxi, and straightened herself up again on the pavement, looking up at the house. The lights were on, so Edward must be home, or at least have returned since she left. It gave her a mixed feeling of relief and further anxiety – she was glad to know that he was home, and he wasn’t hurt, but that meant he had deliberately chosen not to join her.

She hesitated, taking a deep breath, before she stepped forwards and opened the door, walking into the hall. “Edward?” She heard no reply, so she took off her coat, and checked the living room and the study, before heading up the stairs. “Edward?”

To her further relief, he appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. “I’m here. I was on my way to join you.”

“Were you?” said Julia, and bit back a smile as she surveyed him, and took in the details: he’d evidently tried rather too hastily and clumsily to change into evening dress and his bow-tie was just a little askew, and when she moved forwards, she felt fairly sure that he hadn’t managed to get all the buttons of his shirt in the right holes. Her smile became harder to hide. “Edward, darling – are you drunk?”

He waved a hand, and then followed her across as she walked past him, sitting back down on the bed. “Perhaps – a little. Is it so obvious?”

“To me,” she said, and then, sitting down beside him and smelling the spirits on his breath, she laughed. “Well, yes, it is, you know.”

“Probably as well you came back then,” he said.

She poked his arm. “Where were you, you wretch? I was stuck, talking to the most tedious councillor I’ve ever met – which is quite the achievement, by the by – and you were stuck in the bar?”

Edward put a hand to his mouth, but failed to cover his smile. “Sorry. I was at the meeting – it ran over – I missed the train. So, Hurst said I could get a lift with him, but his driver wasn’t due back just yet.”

“And you couldn’t possibly wait without getting too drunk to come to the reception?”

Edward looked at her, seemingly distracted. “Is that a new dress? I like it.”

Julia instinctively glanced down at herself. She let her wrap fall, showing off the evening gown – a long, blue-grey affair in silk, with straps and a tight bodice. “Yes. I’m an extravagant, frivolous sort, you needn’t remind me.”

“Hmm?” said Edward, raising an eyebrow.

She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ve been slumming again today. It makes one think.”

Edward laughed, and kissed her forehead.

Julia swallowed, closing her eyes momentarily. He wasn’t tired of her, and he didn’t despise her. Why he had wound up spending the evening with some tiresome businessman instead of her was, however, another question. “Anyway, never mind my dress – I still don’t see that you’ve explained yourself yet, at least not to my satisfaction.”

“Oh, Hurst wanted to make some sort of – of proposition,” said Edward. He put a hand to his head. “I’m fairly sure it involved carbon paper.”

“Carbon paper?”

“It’s all go in the printing and stationery industry,” Edward said. “Anyway, he was fairly blatant about softening me up –”

“And instead of telling him where he could get off, you let him,” said Julia. “Perfectly logical, darling. I quite understand!”

Edward shot an apologetic, sideways glance at her. “It was rather a fine Scotch. Besides, I couldn’t leave without him, and I wasn’t in any danger of agreeing to anything, whatever he thought.” He grinned. “And it _was_ amusing.”

Julia glanced down to hide her own amusement, trying to hold onto some part of her annoyance. She could imagine the scene only too well, however. “Honestly, though, Edward!”

He put a hand to his head again, then let it fall and looked at it as if in puzzlement. “A _very_ fine Scotch?” was all he could offer in his defence.

“Darling –”

“Anyway, then, once the car arrived, he took me off to see the place – the carbon paper business – thing,” he said, with another vague wave of his hand. “Wasn’t very much I could do about that, either.”

Julia raised her head and gave him a hard stare. “Edward, as excuses go, I don’t even know where to begin –!”

“I was trying to get home,” he pointed out in a reasonable tone. “I mean, to your party. And I think I disappointed Mr Hurst.”

“And enjoyed doing it, too; yes, I know,” said Julia.

He gave her a guilty grin and laughed. “I do take the business seriously, of course, but sometimes – well, when you think about the war, or Whitehall – carbon paper –!” He shrugged. “It is a little ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Not as ridiculous as letting businessmen get you drunk and kidnap you,” Julia told him. “In the unlikely event that I ever rise to higher things in the government, I hope you learn to be more careful before I’m getting ransom notes every other day, and all you can say is that somebody offered you some particularly excellent brandy or whatever it happened to be!”

He looked at her. “I have known Hurst a while.”

“And here I was thinking you had grown tired of such a terrible, unnatural wife,” said Julia, shifting over and setting to work on undoing the tangle he’d made of his bow tie. “Honestly, Edward, what would people have thought if you’d turned up like this?”

“I was wondering,” he said distantly. “When I looked in the mirror – I wasn’t sure –”

Julia shook her head. “Quite! But I do appreciate it when you’re there. I hope you know that. I missed you quite a lot tonight. I know people are obnoxious sometimes – although the idiotic jokes about you being my wife –”

“Shows a lack of intelligence,” said Edward, glancing down with a slight smile as she removed the tie. “A warning sign. Hurst’s like that, too. Said if he were me – if I were me –”

“No, right the first time,” said Julia, and kissed his cheek, before undoing his top button.

“Whichever, he wouldn’t stand for it. All rubbish.” He paused and caught at her hand, taking her by surprise. “Not really the moment to explain, but I’m going to write something – a book. I’ve been looking into it lately. If someone would be interested – that sort of thing.”

“Good,” said Julia, and smiled again, briefly blinking back tears. So, that was why he had been abstracted and it was nothing to do with being tired of her; she could let out her breath again. “Because I can’t help but feel that if you need to keep yourself amused, that sounds much more constructive than getting drunk and winding up carbon paper manufacturers. Am I allowed to know what it’s about?”

Edward frowned for a long moment, and eventually said, “Things. I can’t explain now.”

“Oh?” said Julia, returning to working her way down the buttons of his shirt. “I didn’t think you were _that_ drunk.”

“Yes, and no,” he said, his gaze straying across to her again.

Julia kissed him once more, this time on the mouth, and then undid the last of the unevenly fastened buttons with a well-satisfied smile she couldn’t quite hide. Then she slid herself across onto his lap and put her arms around him. He leant in against her in relief, and she threaded her fingers through his hair, kissing him again, laughing a little. She rather liked it on the rare times when he was in this sort of state. In the usual way of things, there was a sort of resistance in him that was now entirely absent. She didn’t know exactly why that was – whether he had to pause and worry in case it wasn’t the appropriate time or place, or to remind himself that it was permissible to be intimate with one’s wife, or whatever it might be, given Edward’s tendency to worry too much – but now, he might be proof against obnoxious businessmen, but not in the least against her.

Possessiveness wasn’t nice, it wasn’t pretty, and was no way to think about people, Julia knew that, but still, silently as she pressed in closer and he fell back against the bed, she told herself again, secretly, fiercely, that he was hers, and she’d make certain he always remained that way.


	31. Shopping Spree (G, Supernatural AU: Anna, Louise Murray, Michael Seaton)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“What,” said Arran, “makes this the moment for a raid on Bond Street?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Supernatural AU: Anna, Louise Murray, Michael Seaton. Drabble.
> 
> Prompts: Prune #18 (no peace for the wicked) + Pocky + Chopped Nuts + Malt – January Games Week III (from : _Liesa / Arran / Anna - werewolves & retail therapy_.)

“What,” said Arran, “makes this the moment for a raid on Bond Street? I’d have thought we ought to concentrate on how to stop these creatures before one of us winds up bitten.”

Anna smiled. “Well, exactly.”

“Oh, just tell him why we want his cash,” said Liesa. “No point in being mysterious. He might refuse.”

“We fancy some jewellery,” said Anna, raising an eyebrow. “We’re flighty females. What did you think? I’d ask Ella for explosives, but let’s try legal means first – for once.”

Liesa laughed, seeing Arran was still baffled. “Silver,” she said. “By fair means or foul.”


End file.
